Delicate | like an afterthought | Changing the world at the base, in the | eyes where | you want to stay || With a manuscript’s | hoard and labour | How fragile the ink | makes the sky || She travels like a rumour || They tickle, the feathers come | loose from the wings | purring at Hermes’ ankles || Locking a moment’s door | sadly, with | great resignation || Taking a lone | stem from a | bouquet of journeys | one day an | ox-eyed daisy, the next | fennel or | fatal | asphodels || In other words, a road | and you look | to the horizon through | swans’ atoms of | falling snow and | it overwhelms you, like the number | of messages | teeming through your head || Kneeling, without a god but | fearful of the winter’s land, the imps and goblins | freezing to death in their | acorn carriages, their beetle | teams | buried | in boot-deep | drifts | Slice of | heavenly summer | blues down the | grey || Interruptions | making life || Deciding to | take another path | from the one you meant | Bending | hesitating | to unlock the surprise door | of a new moment

No, go | this way instead | Where the rumour of her | rushes in murmurs like a new fad or a new | vision || Putting down a pen, picking up a phone | Checking voicemail for | alcohol or gold || Things moving on, but | a stillness at the core where the human | hand touches | the inertia of summer clouds | partakes of | ether and shadows | of lime trees or | taxis parked | outside a deli with a pale | green awning || Fire | wired into the nuclei | even of fireless things | birds rising in | flocks | ice | asserting its bastion | the impossible | bump of her | body against you and the | tale of light it | trails || From a high building | look down at the | crowds of thoughts | motivating the town | to vectors and wingbeats | scams and | destinations, the motionless | dice of the | dreams of | lounging strangers || Absurd | liaisons | turning to rights or wars | explanations | for your sorrow or the planets or the | nature of time || Masterpiece, burning in a library | how fragile the sky makes  | the ink and | each of its words || Not quite what you | imagined | not at all what you | so carefully planned | wrought from chance and | a subtle | kilter in the angles | and the whole so | sudden, so | delicate – like an afterthought…

 


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

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