Going back to the source | Forgetting the code | in your own cypher | Forever | picking up the pieces, never | putting them down, only | you find them fallen, fallen | Those evenings | music conjures a stillness inside you | When the thaw comes, it comes across the plain, spring | pitches its tents in globules of blue sky | reflected in | beads of meltwater | A small boat | pushed out from the bank | your daughter sleeps as you | drift past the miracles | And your thoughts | are always a kind of spring…

Going back to the source | to find | it was half way through | someone else’s story | Trying to keep all | the crumbs in one palm | In those years | you devised a | very beautiful secret | Now it is rust and cliché | fatigue and bombast | Waking, you | hope you pick up all the | pieces of your house: | this is where you live | this is the person you love | looking somehow | abandoned beside you | Sclerosis and phobia | eat into you | nerves brown off or catch fire, the scent | of their ashes is just | so easy to assume these days | This stillness must go on for a long time, only | you will never reach the end of it | Donkeys | in lines | laden with burdens | this is your morning | A song, a portable | church | with weight of | white marble and | ambient | brilliance of clear water | take it out when you want to || Against | every grain you | persevere | insisting on your grudge like a | rock or a | right | Yet, always | pavilions of blossom | are native to you and | even to think this has ended | is millions of blue globules of lit | blue sky | moving at once | setting into the plain | and rendering all | germinal

 


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

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