Ghost state | Putting out a dish of milk | for those old | strays, their | beautiful musculature | eyes clearer than | plain blue skies in August | their tears | always as if the first tears | so | pure || Late-night matinees | of the silver screen | flicker and dart | of the black and white | deceased | comedians drawn back | to their custard pies | or Spitfires and Stukas | held together by light | sparrows and fifties’ vowels | come to a half doze and Samsung || No one | to understand | these letters, now | Memory | on the move | buffalo selves | long into their | migration | Unfashionable | books | line the shelves | a spirit decor | rendered obsolete by | irony and “the new idea” | a world of aunts | and aspidistras and | antimacassars | And each instant | a vital | summit of particles | convened and adjourned | no minutes taken | no method of record || Bell Bottom Blues | and butterfly | images of the lost | you find | fluttering | superimposed | on forgotten heavens | while one | stranger | walks towards Kansas | through an army of Dorothys | heading for Oz

Ghost state | Echo on the line | Stroke the young stray | Pull back the curtain | let light in on the | magic | but when you sleep | the magic creeps back | the room | travels round the sun | when you wake | she is still there | and the shadows | move differently across her face, her eyes | so steady as she looks at you | her thoughts | long out of date | secret forever | fresh as your fear | and just | setting out | for love

 


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

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