The ghost who | holds your body in their | cooping hands | or | carries it from a bamboo cage | strung through their belt | That great | spirit of years and whispers | for whom no | edge | quite fits | how it | frightens us with its | solitudes and | drifts of | signs and silences | the | city, the | love, all the things we | think about and | the haunting | presence who | thinks

Who | flits through the mirror, what | tiny birds of | song and gesture? || Car, map, key, door, all the objects | we possess | rotate and swirl | in the grasp of | powerful signs, but only | the dead ever really | materialise completely, and no one | knows the | home of storms

 


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