Holding the fort | of the summer | dice still rolling | breath of a new thought | stirring under your skin | Tremendous | ghosts | carrying elderberries and satin | the price | of gold | the cost | of living | Her letters | burnt in the fire | Her words | branching into the ashes and the | roots of them | asking of the sky | some slight portion of the | fear and the essence | of the sun | Scars so far are where | you did not die | and she | may remain in you | So many | birds in the forest | each with their | caption of shadow | of lime leaves, of | song, you cannot | possibly hope to | open | all the doors from your heart | A life of | fritter and chasm | ignorance and flopping plaster | Jesus’ face | cracked right through and | fissure right here | in the sparkling | light of these words | Old | poet | old | beggar | womb all | disconnected and | only others’ | babies crying keep you | awake at night now | A drop of salt | on the tongue | and then | laughingly | a view of the sea’s | grind and glitter | its voids | of rotation and the look | in the eyes of | drowned mariners | as they | sink away | Ships | in bottles and the | whistles | shrill as | toothache | Bust up and | mined out | pulled away by | hooks | under your blood and | in your hopes | Alone | Homeless | Dying | Mocked | and autumn | must defuse | the trees’ | explosive green | But wait | Breaking | can’t be | entirely broken | It’s not over yet | There’s still | a chance | Are you so | sure | after all? | How do you know, for certain, that you aren’t | one of the lucky ones?

Edging the ocean | Shivering after a swim in autumn | Pacific breakers | Towels wrapped around our shoulders | thinner then | Suffusion of | jewels, not | cold | not | accessible, not | acquirable, but | they make our hearts | wonder and spin | Tremendous | ghosts | bearing wounds and memories | Despite the | rage | of | pointless | conjugation | the verb is still | so green in us and the shoots | of summer still | tauten our time | under the sky | When you leave me | you don’t | leave me | When I lose you | I lose you | so deeply | it can only | end in return | or so | I feel || Into the great “meanwhile” | our days were thrown | They never | seemed to come | to nought | We kept busy | We held the fort

 


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

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