Tumbled in, like Alice | It could be opals | from Western Australia | it could be dumplings | in a viscous gravy with skin | also there will be flies | Very highly coloured, but infinitely dissatisfying, so we are bound | to separate | there being more, always more, including up | Folded, like a paper crane, the silhouettes of trees | still in the paper | cut the full moon | with its scent of radish and soy, Tsuki-sama | Progression, apparently, definitely | And recourse | to the slopes and scars and the ragged | Orion of the freckles on your back | and in the aureole | of an illusion | some way down | to the pale hunter | the calm, obtuse, comforting — the classical | Crushed, not by the jaws | of junkyard compactors | or by the vacuous | momentum of the years | but by a thought | As light as that! — a few | vagrant atoms | and the mass | of what calls to them | what | calls to them? | And formally, just because | it was foretold by this reading | with the Hermit | the Wheel and the | King of Cups | there are more of those firefly thoughts | and a voice | from outside | making you | look up

We could plot our end by the phases of the moon | throw in our lot | with the inebriating | roll of the tides | gallons of lucid wanting | shape | falling and spreading and rising | it only makes | a difference | By the sea, because it is | traditional, because | there’s a certain charm | in establishing an attitude | to the neutral punch | and counter-punch | of waves and rock | they are not battling | there is no bout | no prize | but there is a measureless hiatus | and then the full moon | drawing in the arrayed verticals of bamboo | quite still before the dawn | The prey — and it is prey — eludes us | so we pretend | it meant nothing | we put down our guns | pretend | we never carried them | and in any case | that was a long time ago | among the feathers and the moccasins | Safe in despair, we wait, let the days pass | they have no choice, being days | Abruptly, the current of relevance | re-acquires force | still moist | with the water | freshly expiring from the shower’s rose | you lie face | down on the bed | then the perfectly cut | block of darkness interrupts | with hints of lust, and love, and satisfaction | but when, after the dreams, our lives | turn back on | I am not thought through at last | and there is no touch | and no Orion

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

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