Ominous || Wanting clear air | The sun | burnt | The forest, not green, or pure, until | we bring our | innocence to it | Unable to see, or breathe | The tracks lead | only deeper into the flames | and the moon | has no | sea-shells in | children’s hands | Taking fire | with me | and the smoke | everywhere I go | and only when the fire burns out does the smoke | cease rising

I am not the way | forward | not even back || I have become | a form of obstruction || My eyes | smell of smoke || On the edge | of the forest | lie down | in the dry dirt | I made | in my innocence || Dry – dry as | the moon || I am burning | down the sun | and you cannot | pass through | this noise of | flames || Break open | my body | like ore within rock | there are children’s hands | reaching for sea-shells | in shallow waves

 


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

 

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