Giving sunflowers to the moon | and the moon | to the rain || Like the pink taxi | the pine cones | rolled like elegant grenades | under the branches | like the trenchant | molecules of water | in the droplets | falling from a dock leaf | the sunset is only | the single instance of itself | and a little | powdered cadmium | you happen to mix in with it | and neither you | nor this dusk | will ever come again || Jamming the phone down on a cold caller | Never telling them ‘I love you’ | Train, stopped, broken down for | hours in a field | of sunflowers | bathed | in blue-white moonlight | and she asked Do you think it makes them dizzy?

Children spinning round and round | just for the possibilities | in a dervish mood | The alarm goes off, and it’s April | People take cover from their own hearts | those old | beasts | with their | scent of oil and dinosaurs || At war, there was the dawn patrol | The sea took their bodies and knew | no country || The taxi for the funeral was | rose pink | carried images of lips and lipsticks || Breaking and giving | like a promise || Caught on a broken-down train | well after midnight | out in the sticks | we waited for hours | surrounded by sunflowers | in the midsummer heat | and a perfect moonlight | They looked so still | and the moon, so full | Those kinds of memories | go round and round in your head | you half want to | throw them to forgetting || Later, we separated | and I never saw her again

 


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

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