I don’t have feelings anymore, only habits | so I watch the world go by from car windows | train windows | These are distillates now, a bottle of echoes | and so it goes | very slowly | dig up a little from the dirt | some more dust | under the dirt | inside the bottle where the breakings are | the scraping of remains | and the earth very dry | It’s the kind of bottle | gets kicked by a passing kid | in an independent film | from the early 2000s | Faces | rise very slowly | heads, really | rise very slowly | like bubbles | in a liquid | in the bottle | in the memory | of the feelings | It’s only personal, it doesn’t | go too far | A rope swing | under the willow | abandoned farms | and the drought | years in | too arid | to be biblical or symbolic | of anything and besides | there’s no one here to | be faithless, or | to be symbolised | Sad, lost souls, like | drug saints in nirvanas | they’re always muttering | and I saw you with Eric Sigurdsson and some other people | I couldn’t | hear a word you say | In the ear | and the intricate | machinery of nerves and receptors | echoes are conjured | from the desert | and a dark green car | a battered Lincoln | drives off | to the only viable place | left to survivors: away

The kid | runs down the smalltown street | adult smalltalk | simmering in his head | talk of strike threats and the Knicks | the bottle spins then | stops spinning | You dream | of cutting ties | but the knots | are all you’re left with | the drought | the familiar | scenes | the trucks on the highway | the passing trains | the ropes | around neck and wrist | ankles and waist | the guitar strings | in the dust | you dream | of making ties | the place | she dropped | the car keys | the taste of Jack or the last | colour of the sky | to rock gods in their forties

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

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