I’ll show you the first star, and then a following star | You show me the first star, and then the bones of stars laid down and died | a star graveyard | a graveyard of light where the show’s too old | and what we witness simply isn’t there | a great illusion | Living inside the carcases | of ancient stories | no need to fret if you are happy with them | Can you see my love? | Complex as we choose to make it | I understand | across the dry Tiber, brash | Euro-pop | bounces a hollowness fit | only for echoes | the pleasure will do | the secret be kept | half unwillingly | why can’t we make it | easier on ourselves? | Too late | we know too much, we know too long | our culture the setting out | of the grace of our lies | our kindness the display | flaking layers of elegant irony | for want of tenderness or true surrender | Tonight once more we’ll come | to an arrangement | the boat | and its languid wash | rippling the smog and a corner of Orion | In the abandoned | palace of the molecule | the lonely | farms of neurons | hot patches with dust and straw | and scents of nettles and lemongrass | shadow the orchid’s and the lark’s | fever | as skittish thistledowns | shadow the ground of a passing summer

 


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

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