Shaken loose | from flakes of the waltz | and layers of lace | are those my | fingers moving? | Twitching? | With their | green | caterpillar | skin? | Go over the same | old ground | Show the mecanismo | of lightning and the gold | to the fleas and | cats | explain to the fire | the nature of burning and | to the stolidly | beautiful | the nature of their | beauty | Why speak of | change? | What else | is there?

Schubert and the butterflies | of holes in the ground | we dump our fire | Old | newspaper | desiccated | assassins and goal poachers | Marimba | bones | the pot-head | skull | each moment | an egg, so many! | and the eyes | cocoons || Dust in the attic | with the toys and | kling | klang | klung | of a de-tuned | piano || Go back | to your last thought, what | was its shape again? | Lightening | your path | over the water | where the mosquitoes | pace | with their booty | of an animal’s | blood | and my heart | holds down | a cicada’s | shift | is loss | a trail of | golden debris | cogs and | jewel bearings | My teeth | scuttle back to their | roots | we | hit tacks into | day again | assembling | the scene | sketching | of lime trees | the wind | in their tops | the wobbling | sun | Our meaning | is always | difference | like love || Isn’t that the same | for everyone?

 


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

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