Asleep in an arrondissement | Sea of roof-tops, my gaze | The bodies of drowned sailors, a scent of | limes on their breath, and their eyes | full of annoyance and mystery | It was the age of the great explorers | The globes of moments | Who can | circumnavigate such | worlds? | or destroy them by sailing? || Who stole the clematis, was it the frost? Who | buried my lover in banality and suburbia? | Who tore down the old | poetry? | Why does my breath | smell of the juice of limes?

Why do my eyes smell of salt? | Where do the trains go at night, the ones | carrying lumber or nothing or grain? | How did the ocean | give me only these | fathoms to my life? | These are just fingers of light, of ginger, of girls… | Will no one arrive to | understand? | How were they lost – all of them! – after so | bravely setting out? | Everything was just on the | other side of a city | of a shower of rain | of a glance, or of a word || I don’t want to | tear down the moments in measure | plumb them or | map them | How could I? | Inside the age of | this instant | I feel so lost | no matter what the shoreline or diameter

 


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

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