Falling prey to the names, our purpose diluted and quest diverted | so this was the famous “Yet, still”… | Wrapped in hiatus, watching the bokeh of water droplets | out of the sides of our eyes, the ferns | unrolling their fronds, the waterfall’s imponderable | model of immortality plunging past yet remaining | the lucid engine turning over, so this | was the place we could not reach | the place we discarded | the notorious | sojourn | The enemies fell away | The targets shot backwards | and softened | were committed to haze | The lovers made their appearance | aptly enough | a shower left us with a thousand suns | and sex temporarily inflated them | to a million moons, then the pines | went quiet in the cooler air | we released our musk | the stability of our dreams increased | the tent cities of the refugees | couldn’t be retained | gods passed over | tyrants capsized in their braid, they all | fell prey to the names | What was the point | of rehearsing our play | if we were never | to perform it? | Yes, it was the hour | of distraction | the nap by a wood fire, the nap in which | the angels came or | the rebels took the citadel | and the statues began to change | before awakening | Yes, it was | the unwanted children | the legendary | delay to flight | detour through rough country | the missing ferry | that spoiled | our connection to the “mother of churches”, the turning of fire into gold, the private show | the musty, damp-stained velvet | curtain drawn back to reveal | the back door to eternity | Oh, those jackal and hyena names, those vampire and Loki names | those magic lanterns | those paper boats | and coloured vowels | and gun-metal | inscrutability of the cocoons, metamorphosis | postponed | What was the point | of pouring the river into a map,  or changing the nature | of our futility? | Marking out your plot | in airspace and oblivion? | We rested on the blanket | sipped Colombian coffee from a flask | snatched smoothly at shots | of clear apricot schnapps | fanned ourselves as the heat came on | puffed at our pipes | undressed | painted | laughed | kissed | made love | No point at all! | In the distance, the mountains made the heights | for the snow to fill | in graceful forms | permanent, like Fuji-san | Yet, still…

 


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

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