It was as if the tree couldn’t bear its own blossoms | Giving and giving, never taking | like falling | Someone else is here with us today | the next one | And others, so tangential | they have our vanishing in mind | Such a powerful spell, can the magic | of the vantage | be escaped, or | overwhelmed? | The mirrors | must do without us | when we’re not in the room | can they cope? | Down from the cherry tree | dropped the blossoms

Barbecue smoke | wafts over suburbia | we are having | a party! | Summer’s trick is ours to play | Such odd | angles to the strangers’ wars, the moral | so hard to place | at the end of our story | At night | two sorcerers lie down like blossom | and make love as if | the spring belongs to them | equally as to | the lost, the weak and the poor | When this | visceral illusion | has passed | we push the boat out | into sleep | In the bathroom, the bedroom, the front room | the hall | mirrors | attend the darkness | perfect with not knowing and the quiet

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem June 2013)

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