Thoughts | like photographs of falling snow | You move slowly through the fields | The city has no final address | From threads and needles | they make space and the | ruffled and desiccated stars | Although the sound of their voices and the warmth of their breath | fills each cool chamber | and was poured | in the concrete and | was the | map of silence around which was drawn | the shape of the house | they claim the rooms would be | just as empty | if you were there, or | if you were not there | the snow would fall as snow | if there were | thoughts or no | thoughts | as if | these words would not be here if you | did not read them…

Sewing space into a pattern | its archetypal blue | of winter | after the snow | The light | written into | frays and scatters | You catch hold | of a passing thread | emitted by my | sorrow | The day has just been | made differently | Losing the world | moment by moment | not noticing | is our world | Ending one subject by | starting another | Our velvet racket | is the crows’ caucus | Making the snow rise | waking it when it only wanted | to sleep…

 


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

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