Going back over old ground, finding | the ruins have flowered | Angry | the robins are not as you left them | Cobwebs | littered with fallen stars | clinging | Scraped walls | cracked plaster | the bared floorboards | A place set to zero | still ticks | with icicles and red raw hands | You old | compound ghost | a beggar hoisting a bundle of sticks | on your back | You burn the inventory, over and over | and crave the actuality of winter | If you are so alone, then | whose voices are these you hear | perpetually | and who places | in the twilight | corners of November | these green | shivers of spring?

For Sale signs | Spiders creeping over | lost wishes | Pacing the endless | circuits of memory | Asking the water from the hosepipe | to fall as it should do | not to | shimmy with unpredictable glitter | Parking the car | Pushing the pram | Ashes of tortoise shells, ambient | calligraphy of wear | all the sleepless | nights | Snow covers the details, but then snow is a detail | Why must it stay? | And vanish? | And return, sometimes, hit from you by | the furious martial ecstasy of robins? | It was dead, in your hands | How can that be | a source of relief? | And why do you grieve, finding | that decay | blossoms?

 


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

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