Come home the song said | It was an old theme | but old in the way, each year, spring is old | despite the new departures of the blossom | Come home said the TV, and the walnut veneer and the freshly | oiled castors | but they weren’t in the song | and they didn’t possess | any of the song’s depth or sadness | Perhaps we should take a break I said | in a voice that was new, though in the way | annually the winter is new | still, it was probably the first time | I was really cold | What time | are you coming over? | you said | We are a history of discrepancy | the long | this is not that | I am not this | this is not me | we are not them | over and over the shuffled elements, hands | wafting through clouds of particles, chalk dust, cigarette smoke, a lover’s perfume | over and over | to arrive at the re-parsed set | the banks of the river | the place of rotting flowers | the mildly desperate game of status, the room by the lagoon | with its litter and stagnant water | the point of the series | the rank | I couldn’t feel | anything at all, not even | in the heart of the ice-melt | the snowdrop’s | chute | pistils of cherry or plum | you couldn’t feel | the nature of the wrong | I laughed, quietly, at the end | Come home | I said to the song

 


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

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