I knew it was a tragedy, but nothing would form in my head | People used that expression, It seemed like an eternity | I wondered how they knew? | There were the small, neat, blank steps of knowledge | the descent into the pool | things packed in boxes as you might | on moving apartment | the body swelling and vanishing, swelling and vanishing | as I thought deeply or grew distracted — the pulse of the green light | at the end of the jetty in Peach Tree Bay | and the darkness it put out into: such a darkness, and the way | darkness connects to darkness | filling in the breakages | building a kind of non-map | to plan our non-journeys, of which | there are more and more each day | and your fingers accidentally | switched the phone to Airplane Mode | — just such things, and the turquoise coral | Routines would take the place | of the living we’d intended | we’d make small modifications to the design | endlessly perfecting a prototype we would never | as it turned out | bring to production | Then there were the angles again | the pristine vacuity | of our new ignorance | and the point the road branches into sloth or shock | an eternal | lack of return | Building walls to hold the walls in place | mute, a long while | staring at the apricots in their plastic punnet | it was up to you | to drag the planet into its fresh alignment | with the sun | but by then | the truth had appeared | cold and neat as a cube | of ice | faintly alien | and we had to choose | how to disregard it | The girl in the next seat | was Japanese, she said | her name was Shiori | precisely just such information | and the dry sticks which break against | the rings of Saturn | shattering the leaves as fine and thin | as moths’ wings | In the evening, earlier than we meant | we tipped the glaciers and the sulphur and the lakes | into sleep | that was what we tried to call | our structure, our stability | Her not coming | came again and again like waves | and I needed to make do | with darkness, which was traditional | And from that darkness, her not coming | came to me, at last — but not the only last, I know — and it seemed | like an eternity


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