The suitcases, which became too heavy to drag | The road with a rotting calm, when it is quiet at night, under the streetlamps | Up in the mountains, the populations grow old, they will find a way | No one means for it to end like this, in the brightly lit car-park | below the BUDGET MEATS sign | all the vodka we drank | the tenderness we sought | the caresses dry like ink | on certain words | they are never beautiful anymore | and we don’t want to | caress anymore | They will find a way, they will move on, or stay, like those ageing folk up in the mountains | their children having left for the city | and a better life | Or lose their country and give up | With the translucence of vodka | straight, the chatter of ice | the arguments about the midfield and the wings | the small delves around his wrist | my fingertips explore | leading to the beach | the child’s pink seahorse and her tongue stained | orange from her lolly | and further off, later, the incessant traffic on the motorway | a desolate sound | a lobotomised, voracious grind | and yet it is only | people finding their way | he doesn’t understand why I find it so sad | And if it ends like this | she will have no complaints | they will not call me | and they’ll never leave the mountains now | and you will rest your head against my head | with the beauty of the truly lost | but burn like most, and like no one | we won’t flee the homeland | they won’t wave their magic wands | we won’t count | we will not stay to understand | we will not burn like Mitterand


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