Touched by the | oldest light in the universe | Eyesight, not what it was || When the rain fell | Drip of the moonlight, patter of | fragments of craters | By being here, building a way | out of here | My love | not being able to | stay | even if we wanted | The moon tastes fresh, and we are so young || Leave the sense we made of it all | behind | mimic | the dragonflies and snakes | and cicadas || Trail across the years | generations of translucent skins | When time reaches us, at last | we’ll run on ahead, so fine | we’ll be | almost nothing

Limit of consciousness | Volutions of shells, kisses | dripped into ears, it was the | hour of the snake, we carried the | ocean with us, always had | drowning on hand, and | mellifluous echoes of poison || Thinking it begins here | or there | shifts the origin each | moment || Out in the desert with the motor off | the doors | closed | a god of sky above us | pebbles | scattering the plain, each | with its caul of shadow || Adding our words to the scene, splitting the | difference with a dictionary | like reverse pickpockets | slipping our spirits into the ground, letting limes grow there | and a plethora | of small weeds || At fifteen paces, people | become blurs | but the moon | drenched with rain | drops its juice into us and cannot | refuse our want || No | rest || The city | twisted into the | rope of our | embrace | hangs a new shape | until the morning || Ghosts | gleaning the air for flesh | teetering | on the edge of sleep, those old loves | almost grab | hold | those empty | sleeves | fold | over bodies | though sunshine | drips through our fingers | runs | right out through the bones | still, at moments | we | whip our | horses on, until | the horizon | seems | almost something…

 


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

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