Halving one’s heart | turning it over like a stone | watching the golden insects scatter | and the worms | pitched into the blaze of the sun | search for the earth and their true | element again |     | An envelope | falls out of a notebook | and the words | wriggle to sense and a glance, then | bury the lightning with the whole storm |     | In the immense | flash of the event | you lie alone | in what is left of heaven | calm | with pieces of strangers | lifted in what, once, you called | your hands

In a fork in the moment | we paused and a shadow went over the sun |     | Rome was built in that day |     | Stragglers | from the picnic | in a 19th | century novel | fell to talking of horses, then land, and so | to love |     | It will soon rain, and we | must hurry to the next thing, hoping it will form | a shelter of some kind | flexible as an unread book | passing like a lost affair | enduring like a stone••

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