I was always thinking | “What will it be like afterwards?” | But there was no afterwards || I thought it would be very still | as they say the floor of the ocean is still | no matter what storms are blowing across the surface | but I don’t know | and never will

The day, entire in its beauty, faithful as it always is | refusing nothing | demanding nothing | engulfed him | and wrapped him in vanishing | and then we were left | poised with loss | and enigmatic in a common way | holding all the pieces of our incompletion | gazing out over the landscape | everything hidden as the thoughts | passing behind the eyes | of perfect strangers in photographs


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

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