I was forever preparing myself for events that never happened | or, if they happened, were lemon, when I had prepared for rose | Equally, I was assiduously keeping records | of episodes, or objects, or feelings | that were lost, and could never achieve again | the state of actuality | Between these two cardinal activities — preparedness, and record keeping — much of my life passed | in apparent futility | yet, I was occupied and, to me, those occupations comprised | a form of hope || I am sure I am not alone in this

The god was so still, her concentration so pure | she was not disturbed | by the many buildings we put up around her | neither the temples nor the hotels | while we | for our part | always kept moving | and never noticed her at all | even after the fires had burnt out | and the wind had fallen | the ashes settled, the war finished | and the autumn day grown calm | she was there, but | eluded us: besides | we had our children | and our love meant rebuilding

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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