How the dragonfly | gets into your glance | How the Incas | relate to you | Cocoa and Ghana… | Catching a later train | in Guinness | waxy orchids and that old | seasonal surge of | grief | the tidal weight of families | shoving you forward | dragging you back… | Impossible stories | In a translucent ink of ardour or lethargy | or both | writing these long days out | Latching | Polaris to the cranes around King’s Cross | to the eucalyptus trees | in the valley at dusk | scoring that immense internal landscape | of your memory | a whole world | snagged to a ragged firing of nerves | Goldfish in a plump | teardrop bag of clear | plastic | Choosing a name for this feeling | Too | fragile | too many | interconnections | Details endlessly growing details, where does one | start, where does one | stop? || Calling it complete, though | there are still cracks in the cypher | the lemon isn’t | sufficiently gold and the cinnamon | reminds you too much of childhood… | And then, inevitably, the | jump | abandoning one subject | locking on to another | and in between | the velvet chasms of | wordless dark | a place | concepts do not go || Aztecs, too || Making | out | In your dreams | a cry and | all the colours of silence

Details growing details | Look more closely at the blades of long grass | among the meadows of atoms where a solitary thought | may wander | Bombadier | bees | nuzzled from foxgloves | Shapes | wrapped in their own vanishing | Too many: too few… | Did you | want to count the flames | in the fire? | The darkness approaching | what colour can you call the night? | How make sense of | the end of a day jam-packed | with so many things you didn’t wait for?

 


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

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