Across the bridge with willows at either end | Blood and the moon | bear us on their backs | nights the sea | stirs in our children | No Napoleon or | set containing everything | but baseball boots | and all the glory | lit up, here and there, in the form of stars | hugging | a spat-upon dark | Such tenderness as is shown | to tie in the brief | knot of organs, the | lie of a palm | resting calm | on a caress’s stream | How we must | cling to the soft | mule of the pulse | reach out a hand and make it | ours | as it dips | in snow or limes | and covers | our fatal | path | leaving us with | filaments to hold in the sun | and the space inside the thought | you think after this one

 


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

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