Frankly, lost | There are postal addresses for this | phone numbers | forms to fill in | Civic authorities to process the matter | Space Age fins on an old American car, a washed-out peppermint | green | A bleached-out photograph, a silver bracelet on a slender wrist, the hand on the great wheel, a girl with cherished blonde hair, very straight and the point the scene | gives way to another scene || All those caresses | mostly trailed back to | an order of acceptance, taken for granted, but a few | of high luminosity | with their specific dazzle | leaving you quizzical, hinting at | secret gardens or thoughts | that might end up | tipping you into some sublime quandary || Dead ends | Any way out | The moon, very slowly and methodically | swallowing goats or moths, whatever – living things, and | mountains, roads through the mountains, signs on mountain roads, and suchlike || Losing my voice | so suddenly | and the speed of it | and the totality | gave magic back to the words I couldn’t speak, as if | I had accidentally | dropped a lamp and | mislaid a genie I | never knew I had || It’s so quiet | where the signs rotate and slip | off into other signs || Information is destiny | ask anyone who | gives directions

Crematoria | debt collection agencies | police forces | fire services | whatever the event, we have | structures in place | to deal with these matters | We tune the flames, tame the bodies | A dead end? | Drive back, hear the engine | make that particular sound | in reverse | check your phone | you have an app | Plastic bags to | contain waste | detectives | to solve or not | solve the crimes, and | criminals to | commit the crimes | We have critics and reviewers | the shadow under the famous bridge | perhaps a few sparks of notoriety | We have time to go over these things | time not to care very much | about most things || Tied my old boots to the | tail of the lightning | Recurrent | mules, packed high with their burdens | girls slipping off airliners | or dusty mountain tracks | Scattered, irrelevant episodes | they flock into our fold and we call them years | Walking out, and not coming back | playing to your weaknesses | He called it “failure” | the ambient glory of his life, the stuttering | beauty of his friends | the memories of lovers | who left him wondering | what he was and where | he might go next || Any way out | although it was April and the maps were | up-to-date | they said he was confused | asked for directions and was told | go left, smiled and nodded, then | went right

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

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