Like a ship made of driftwood | dovetailed from the wrecks | of other vessels | A wrangled thing | caulked and finessed | It could be an idea | It could be a love | Motel room with a vibrant pink sign | something to do with rodeos? | Your mind | flushed with the powerful odour of bladder wrack or dulse | seaweeds entangled through the swaying | antlers of thoughts | a memory floating in a day | How a sapphire calls and how you leave it | behind | On the edges of a city | powdered with incidents and police lights | seeking to simplify your life | you wonder | how to eliminate extraneous things like | the way the moon happens to | shine, or | how to rid your darkness | of the ghost of a sapphire? | Watching out for a new beginning | The soft sound of blossoms falling on concrete paths | and the delicate electronica | of insects in the wide | Australian summer night | their desiccated | bleeps and whirs | Car thieves re-birthing | stolen Mercedes | All around you | the teeming congregation of disparate existences | inadvertently | building a patchwork cathedral | a cubist arrangement of oranges and exhausts / Chopin and ecstasy | Missing your ferry | Suddenly | wanting more life than you can bear | (it is | part of an arch) | For every exit an entrance | the fresh air | after the cinema | is a building, too | Eerie sound of buoys tolling | Shanties for moths and notations for electrons | Bonfires on the beach, echoes of old 70s riffs | The bus stop, an epic | Keep making it | patching new parts from | found wood and offcuts | It may not look like much | It may not be much | It could be better | It could be the rising price of butter | It could be a love

She sat back on the sofa in her red coat and red jeans | Who could have imagined her? | She’s building a ship made of driftwood | If you want more life, go to her | Although there isn’t time | to get to the end | she’s started a new play | And you won’t feature much, but maybe | for a moment | towards the back of the stage | you may be glimpsed in a captain’s uniform | and the glint of the rings of golden braid | blur into the shadow | your hands | in white gloves with a | dove-like flutter | raised towards her | dazzling from the sleeves of deepening sapphire

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012ā€“2016)

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