Adrift again. So much so, to misplace a sea | misplace | drifting itself — no islands, no talk of shore, not for hours | This Sunday | stretches out | long after Christ can have | any use for it | we give up pushing our cart, pram wheel | will not fit | and we do not care | for Saint-Just or Montesquieu | or for the elaborate atlases | trapped under glass and the air | of foreign power | invades our senses | with the hopeless | strength of ignorance | is repelled | Tant pis! | To get home, we must first | have a home | The clouds, summer monsters, glide slowly, so slowly | and always as they glide their shapes | mutate | subtly, across the surface of the cloud | lilac grey shadows flow | slowly, so slowly | the clouds’ topography is liquid | their contours forever shifting | the mass of vapour | travels but is | unoccupied | no cloud girls, no cloud boys | inhabit those great white lands, their ghosts of mountains | without climbers, sans conquerors | flags | lost picks or spools of rotting rope | defy our logic, defy our dreams, defy | even our boredom | North, to a cooler country | soon, to a better road | when we are ready | to run under a rising moon | Yes, eventually | North | Soon

We cannot escape the relentless inquisition of our dreams | nor should we | An irrational politician | insists on reasons for staying or going: we listen | to Chicago house or bulletins | from a crisis | or nightingales in Kaspars’ Orchard | these are superficial sounds | they offer | superficial signals to obey or to | refuse | there is a more fundamental tide | holds us in its sway | a sirens’ quiet song, there are | primroses in the meadow, the fingers | and the back of the hand | the earth | the back of the head | the earth | and the inevitable | blue vacuum of the sky | offer only superficial signals | to refuse or to obey | and we do | A dream, with mountains and seas, such as are on the moon, hoves into view | exerts its illogical gravity, and we | following the map of an impulse | choose the valley or the villa in Crete | the wrong | word | the wrong | decision | and then fret, as ever, on possible consequences | and the dream, monstrous, drifts overhead | enforcing its progress in a glide of shadow | rendering, as in a scene | from a 1950s western | of wagons ringed around | circled by Red Indians, each in bright, tiny-coloured headdress | or feathers | a model of our reasons | and the prairie intimated | by a fading green ocean | panning away | to Simone | in Kaspars’ Orchard | or somewhere | or someone

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

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