Perfect | colour || She popped him | quickly | in the soft | bag of a kiss and | ran away with him || The lightning | of witness…

Was it teal? | A subtle and specific | shade of turquoise (faintly bleached)? | The rowing boat | long rotted into the | hot sand | the end of its voyages | lingering and still | in sound of the | seawaves falling and the cast | vapour of salt and grain || It was hard to | picture the precise | shade | in her head || Observers | returning to the beauty | in their memories, but | how small | the photos | render the event, how flat and the video | shakes, the | audio track is | muffled and the cries of the birds with their | iridescent | plumage | hazed over by | Henry’s breathing || Her boy was | fourteen, he was still | so young | but she sensed him | ripening towards | the idea of journeys | and she knew that | soon an ocean would | arrive for him | chauffeur-driven in an | elegant limousine, and | all the gulls would | shoot out and upwards | in one | sudden | burst

 


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

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