Slowly and slightly, on the mountain lying aslant on the table, it was alleged, snow was falling | For a moment, with the clear, generic good looks of the boy on the Photo-Me booth | The beautiful naked women were walking out of the sea, like this, to the sift and shuffle of encomia | the hands without rings moved | she joined the list, or one of the lists | Enough labour to build a pharaoh’s tomb | he wonders | do tombs count as infrastructure? | The unhappiness is unevenly dispersed | and people sense the injustice | they crowd around the entrance | like refugees huddling at the back of a truck | where supplies are being distributed | nervously, by the harassed employees of NGOs | he will not fret for them | for all his talents | one can sense his vulnerability | and she is young | she cannot command | the spiritual energy | it is a big ask | The hand with a ring | removes another chance of Alps, or Purcell at the crematorium | it is the assembly of good style | the manuals explain | by the refined | culling of unnecessary elements | Slipping away quite quickly | like the chance of werewolves | in the minds of abducted schoolgirls | his innocence surely cannot | Sadness isn’t a virtue | and the others are heads on stacked TVs | at the end of the working day | Doreen flicks a single switch | to turn them off | then nothing remains of them at all | then no one can call them beautiful

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