Fleeing into sleep | Wanting to ask again, Why do you do this? | If it was a boat in a Flemish painting, you’d understand | If it was a | poem in a collection | by a famous writer | you’d understand | or an English telephone box | sited at a particular corner, solid and red, but… | Shake it, no | key falls out, and the edges blurred, like the mist of a waterfall | It is attached to no fire but once / (was it?) / it was wired into flames and the burning was obvious | as burning is || A quiet | Sunday afternoon | in the Kingdom of Orphans | the children at their | various pastimes | pouring their souls down into the | barrels of skipping or | books | or poring over kites | with all their | melancholy devotion, it is a voice | looking for voices | a nagging | awareness of the EXIT sign | and rolled | under the trees | among its comrades | a sterile fruit to | taste fine and not | go on

Opening a different letter | Piling up boxes inside a dream | stacking crates | doing chores || Saying “tomato”, saying | “potato” || Divergent | ascents | rocket curves from an | Itano circus | their tendrils of smoke | describing a sinuous | cat’s cradle | a basket | to hold nothing || Terrible eyes | of the purest writers | cold and depthless | the skies for nomads | the bitter, unripe apricots | on the highest trees | bitten and spat out, this is their | track | the pits and the shells | hashish and scribbles || It has no | agreeable proportions | it will not | remain still | No one | calls you to it | no wise authority | explains it is good, it is useful, it is so | Loitering around | a provincial cinema | near dusk | inside | the green | capitals of ENTRANCE signs | call you back to your youth | the axiom | of your mother’s hand | held out || Building a love | to discover how it dies | A sumptuous | acid-like clarity | the shimmer of flies | on experimental fruits | and a child | reading | following a line | with her fingertip | munching her apple | and every | two | verses | pausing, and | looking up

 


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

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