These are the things | They break us gradually | until only a voice remains | to mourn or | howl | Yet, what is broken is not | broken | it’s just | you are no longer able | to bind the story | in your memory’s | circle | You tied it | round, now watch it fall | loose | float like | debris and petals | What is lost is | belonging | a style | of identity | It’s true, these are the things | In the end, the broken sentence | gives back its words | and the final years | give back their spring

Kept awake by nightingales | Beaks | trickle with dew | Lovers lie back in the boat of their | exceptions | fold the oars | drift and creak | The calm of the lake | breaks us gradually | with its beauty and its | rigid | location in time, that | fatal | precision | Among the things | riches and | poverty | There was no toilet in the building, at night | you told me | in emergencies | you had to shit on a newspaper | take the excrement out the next day | You didn’t complain, and the years | rippled by | Now your grief | goes round in circles, sometimes hidden | but always there | like a moon | At the edge | of these breakers | the sea | needs no masters | The words | float free from the sentence | and, as the springs | fade | inside us, we | float free from the words

 


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