You felt as if you were missing an illusion | to complete your wisdom | so you set out | on your last journey | It’s an old story, kind of | Voyages | from the red | petals of coals glimpsed through | veils the bridal | spiders dropped | as guests ran from a stirred unease | of rainswept weddings | pages of Whitman or Verlaine | stained by pressed flowers | a washed-out | lavender or | windswept | rose | a whole | history | of sentiments and misadventure | lies right | on the edge of truths | all they lacked | finally | was love | Across continents | by Boeing or Airbus | hibiscus in Hong Kong | camellia in Tokyo | the heart as sweet jar, trick or sump | Flicking through the book of the mirror | skipping the florid roué with the watery, evasive eyes | pausing only briefly at the rue-filled charlatan | or the blood-dipped | buck | lingering over the statesman | and good friend | the naked boy | stripped of his tutu | too tired to | make the layers of | white irony | rustle or shine…

Wolves are coming | wolves with black fur, blacker even | than the beginning of everything | blacker, the fur, than | the darkness | snuffed candles | slipped into | a spider-slung room | in a remote chateau, to the east, 1708 | Wolves with | white fur, too | Wolves | with every | kind of fur | Do you understand | the concept of wolves? | If so, set out | on your last | journey | run quickly! | floundering | through the thigh-deep snow | escape if you can | Wolves | with eyes so purely blue | even the survivors will never | see anything so pure again | but the blood | fuck! | it ran copiously | and made a truly | horrible mess | against the background | of a perfect, crisp | winter’s noon | Very soon | you and I | will be so | alone | I’ll bring the vision | you’ll bring the excuse | I’ll bring the anchor | you the storm | I the proposal | you the partial | negation, and in such a way | we’ll negotiate | this onerous moment | I’ll stay | you’ll leave | that’s how | the joke works | Ask for all the great lines | to come round | again, and again | It’s not | going to | happen | Listen, I’ll be | the sorrow | you can never | reach | the lovers | you let fall and drift | the promises | you made and didn’t | even | regret | breaking | I’ll be the glum inexorable | munch of circumstance | against the fine-cut | foundations of heroic ideals | the tiring | stature of your soul | fatigue of limb and bond and reason | the drying up | of lust and even | of affection | and the wolves, again | and the ocean of their needs | Feel for one | last time | the vast | boat of the spring, the only | real season | setting out | with a cargo of | flowers and leaves | choking gold | flagrant sheens | pouts and pots | astral | expansions | of purple and crimson | glisten of | the mighty | insects waking | taking the pollen strain | in their long teams | and all the words | I write | now | all my wisdom | compiles | the fall of cold rain | over the cold sea | no matter what I do | I can only | commit the oldest | indiscretion | with the newest | hands | then turn away | and cast my child into memory

 


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

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