A map of spilled sugar | shows you the way to a broken sweetness | We put the break | into the grains | Throwing out | the shape of today | from the busy | hollow inside you | Dead mirror | entertains ghosts | the slow | desilvering | a drip | of time’s water | a mineral | secretion | Lovers | touch you in steam | pass a cake of soap | across 20 years | they have their swans and their cats | their boars and tigers | and they have | moments | they seem to rest | having shed all the words | naked and poised | as if they have just | been born and know | nothing | Breath | flushes memories | with entangled warmth | in a cat’s cradle of neurons | a new idea | occurs for an instant | as the fish | swell the nets, so | the nets take a form | Underground | the | train accelerates away | flashed with | magazines | you look for your stop | an unfamiliar line

One of those days | all the stations | are new | On the map | a bold fresh colour | Chūō or the A line | Growing old | looking at the spring blossoms | in a different way | subtly | putting into the mirror | a dish of ghosts | and in the cold | their breath | flares for a moment | an illegible map | (Argentina?) | in intricate | silver…

 


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

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