And then, abruptly, nothing | The storm stops cooking its violet | The train simmers, oil | is not enough | The dream is no longer shared among sleepers | Feathers | dither in the air, flakes | eddy and settle | around the body of the slaughtered goose, still, set to | one side a moment | What should I do? | Kiss your heels? | Stand up | in the burst of bright silence | deliver a lecture to the cows and fences? | Applaud the clouds? | Kiss | each of your four ankles, give up | waiting for the wings | to slow their beats?… | Childhood | rings us and there is a path | spongy, tawny with dry needles | under dark, imposing pines, it leads me back to | to the beasts of my childhood | and all I’ll lose to them, suddenly | I know I must take that path, if I | get going now, the sooner | I’ll reach you | At the edge of the field | in motorbike Arabia | pause though | poor white trash standing in | a free blaze | of poor white trash | wondering?… | And their breath smells | of hormones and sweet | anger | and their manners rough | their teeth for boxers and tinkers | and their need? | Their need? | Their need … enough…

Very still, like those mornings after heavy snowfall, your lungs and the backs of your eyes | lined with deep, white velvet | no choice but to love | It is decided | Your Holbein child’s | cheeks, roses from lullabies and nursery rhymes, clouds | on the edge | of dissolving | The darkest glance | Nodding off | in a lecture on the origin of | Romance languages, safe | to do | there is so much future | But also | as your body | releases the swans and ice | “beautiful, mysterious” | a place you | stop for | no | feelings to hand | maybe with crumpled daisy chains trailed | among the marking stones, the soft | light of buttercups held under the chin | on a hot, motionless day | entirely full | entirely empty | like graves in midsummer

 


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