People on a beach gazing across the sea | eking out the summer | in ghosts of sunlight | what are they doing? | They are both fretful and patient | as if waiting but not | sure why | ready to go yet | lingering | expecting no change | as the waves | rise and fall | approach and recede | though?… | The horizon oddly | satisfies them | with its gray-blue haze | its pure | irresolution | And when they look away, the people | in a far-off, unsure | place in them | sense lapse | a small undocking | and concede defeat, albeit | in a battle they never | knew they were fighting, and in a war | so subtle and nuanced | it possesses | the lightness precisely of a forgotten thought | and the slow-moving grace | of a lonely god | passing monumentally by

Sometimes, when I think I’ll never love again, the landscape grows quiet in me | and I feel the ebb and flow of the years | making an ocean | of each moment | and a blank calm | like slate | imbues each object | so things rest | around me | as if awaiting a hand | to wipe them clean

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