In sleep, what shift in the cargo? | No more mounting a rush | an Arctic spell | with wipers overwhelmed by butchers’ flakes | artics marooned in blizzard lines | Pegasus on the logo | Instead | a dry rigour to the method | the scope and bearing of | a known profession | a comfort with horizons | like a climatologist, or a surveyor | marking out the route through wilderness | When dealing with one thing, one must put aside | everything else | and if the thing is darkness | when we wake | can we be sure | we have carried through the night | all we had with us on the other side? | These are not daisies or a rabbit’s flight | or pieces of rose quartz or the peaceful | toil of bees | but only where the road will go | to reach the shore | and waiting ships | with holds and capacity


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, January 2015)