Edge of dusk | Filled with disturbed stillness, like a boat | not quite | unmoored | fingers | working at the knots | Journeys | sigh and creak | within the shells of | pistachios and behind the façades | of vacant houses | All needing | mariners | – the night, particularly | To come to the end is an easy thing, but | how do you know it | really is the end?

TO LET | An anticipation of rooms | Horses, harnessed to a carriage, but not yet | told to walk on | No longer | knowing what you know | unsure of the words | to use | to the strangers inside you | Unfathomable | instants of sleep | that shimmer of inconsequence | between light and light | Throwing the powder of your thoughts | into the raw-boned air | The February wind | seems to take no | tint of your | bemusement | Cancer, gravity, folly, rates of | exchange: counting the causes | But at the nap’s | edge | you wonder if you may | remember a different dream? || As the years pass, so the gaps | mount up | like stacks of new doors | awaiting houses

 


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

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