They brought violence | their way | of negotiating the world | The architecture of the statement had them | the white domes | in the dry hills | and the desert drew us | with its super-clear skies and ample | locations for graves | We had outsourced the war | and kept ourselves to ourselves | not even each other | The blank, neutral peace of tulips | in cream ceramic vases | punctuated our hysteria | our hysteria sustained | at such an even, moderate pitch | we mistook it for balance | and the cars were particularly beautiful, too | In the later days, even graves had graves | the authorities | buried the survivors of the old regimes | who, in turn, had buried | their predecessors | and the rebels | dug up the buried and scattered their remains | the parts | were ground down | bones dis-assembled to fume and powder | very fine | hardly distinguishable | from dust | Somehow a mosquito | survived in the cab of the van | and bit you on our drive | towards the facility | the telescopes | pointed to the ancient centre | the source | of our major moment | the most delicate | flying edge of the waves | flung | foam | She needed | your blood | for offspring she would never achieve | she fed | off nectar and water | she had her instructions | filed in her genes | all she was doing | was obeying | what choice did she have? | It took hours | to get to the club | but it was worth it | the DJs were great | they built a mellow, funky vibe | and the crowd was good | really chilled | eclectic mix | of people | all different origins and persuasions and | identities | Youth had come here | to express hope | and to make and to share | pleasure | and I was sure | no one was thinking of the end | the grooves were optimists | We began with the heart | and worked outwards | we didn’t start | from an idea | the ideas | came to the heart’s beat | and tried, and are still | trying | to work it out | that simple thing | I texted you about the bombs | but I think you were out | of network coverage | you know how things go mad | at times like these | I thought our love was like | one of those tracks you can’t | get out of your head | for days | months | years | Dusting for fingerprints | and finding traces | the house | folded into a single | point of ultra-fine light | and on the broad white sills | painted by immigrant workers | the exploded fireworks | of wilted tulips | rested their flaccid petals | of China red | no time | ticking | anymore | For the lucky | there were graves | for the rest | they simply disappeared

Spring came, with its ultimatum | We felt we had to decide | There was a strange evening, when your fortune cookie read | You will die alone and poorly dressed | we wondered about it | maybe | more than we should have done? | At nightfall, there was the usual pile up | of anxieties | I found it hard to sleep | I’d been bitten | by a mosquito | my arm itched | and then the beat came again | no one could resist it | the dance floor filled | arms were raised and hands performed | sinuous curls and waves | and, oh, I don’t know | I had a feeling as we | brushed up against each other | that life would be good | we’d make our mark | that people were good | that we were good | and the music was telling us | to defer | in the most gorgeous way | our great decisions | that for now we would dance, but tomorrow | we’d make our start on forever


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