Our hands | slide helplessly | Wonky stars | whirl and speed, it is | all perfectly normal | Just a Tuesday | The trees | throw bunches of fire into us, we cannot | deny the spring | Platform | life | The stillness of suburban stations | in the evening, power | ready to be drawn | echoes of | tired footsteps on bridges | saturated by | sun | dwarf pines and | purple tulips | What is | inside us, this | thirst that may not | be quenched? | Dropped the Earth, needing | to keep some balance | but one day it is | flour in a | fine pyramid, the next | ashes or glances, what is one | to do to make it | even out? | When all the ladders turn to snakes | and the sea | asks for drowning as its | natural due? | Pinning the heart | to its next beat | letting out the rope | of breath | slowly, slowly, then | quickly! | Half awake | beside a | near stranger | the bed | drifts | and an un- | familiar line | awaits | Ill- | lit | the mind | unshaven | a bag of | glinting | razors | Who lies here | dry-mouthed | hazily | begging of the day no real | slaking? | Your memory | says it is you, but | is it?

Who is to | pick up the parts once the | crash is over? | And the life has | disassembled into | literal pieces, the hanging | scales of the metaphors all | fallen back to | Earth? | Is the Space Race | really over? | Lift even the smallest | fragments of the fire | into bags | then turn, at last, and | show me your face

 


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

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