Blew up out of nothing | as, perhaps, most things do | For the ripples in the pool when the raindrops fall | Even the monuments, like that, bloom | into our views of them, as we bloom | to ourselves | For the mild, faintly gritty air, near the junction and the hotel, where, in summer | young people | wait at the lights in their cars | playing hip hop or dubstep, the windows open | As dreams do | As the famous old story of sharks and marlin | did on that day | For the sleep that was coming on | my senses | flushed to their peak, diluted to the surface | of my skin — just hanging on | As thoughts do, blew | up out of nothing | Passed, of course, as the rain did | and the water lily | and the pool | For the ripples, radiated out | from the electric centre | and images of the hotel | bevelled and rolled | and at night, when the rain fell | the reflections in red and cream | flowed and formed and flowed again | As moments do | As sleep must do | For Mos Def, and Magnetic Man, for the new old and the new new school | As summer must do | London faded | and across the world | the great cities | faded from our view of them | faded and | blew up out of nothing | For the ripples in the pool | young people | waiting for the lights to change | at the junction near the hotel | and I was just hanging on — hard work had tired me out, and my senses | were flushed through by incipient sleep | that was coming on | and my skin | felt diluted by weariness | blown | fuzzy at the edges, at once | more numb and more receptive | presented | a more uncertain interface | and passed | As the words, too | For the mouths | forming their “oh”… | their “om”, their “ohm”, their “origin”, their “Oh — you” | Their Rome | our dusk | by the river | Our storm | Up, out of nothing | blew

Floating states | an unfinished work | Carefully inscribed | in cool and extensive detail | as in one of the stern and intricate prints | of Albrecht Dürer | Yearning for a clear moral | I couldn’t help but fear | that the clarity and elegance of the lines | etched with such grace and precision | merely, and ultimately, emphasised their own reliance on the space | they divided and yet | could never conquer | The blank copper of the engraver’s plate | and not the incision made | is the material fate of each and every | performance of distinction | This was my fear

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

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