Hibernating through a moment | and another | moment | Drink down that golden dross | may it | comfort you | Sleeping potion TV, the fortress in its draw of blinds | the great, raw | decision | turn away | into the quiet dark | where await | detectives and pharaohs | a topaz | a gull | There is no crowd, there is only | a group of | individuals, but | then, near a magical dusk, the crowd | whispers inside you | and you take | a path you never | planned to take…

We all get through this life, one | way or another | Wisdom from the | bus ticket in your hand | the fat | oozing on you | aphids | chomping their way through honeysuckle | drug barons | dream of their mothers and wouldn’t want | to wake | The desperate wait | by the side of veins | the size of rivers | their misery and their joy | a clink of old razors | An imagery all | out of kilter | reindeer and plum | pudding and snow | in Arizona | the sleigh skewed and toppled over | in the desert | Rooms that somehow | turn to dungeons | when you look outside, you only see | the Prince of the Bad Moment | passing by | Summer | stunned you | lushly | bludgeoned by the heat | you lay down in the shade | of a silver willow | and things took a | good turn | The widow | calls it “summer”, too

 


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

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