One by one, closing the books of the days | Not this story, now | And no longer this tale | of doubt and grief and treachery | The library in the head | ticks in the heat | in summer | ticks from its venerable | squeezebox radiators | in winter | Sometimes it fills with water, and sometimes | with fire | or jonquils | The children are there | and old people | with their silver and plants | wars and recipes | It is a strange | paradox | as the collection | grows, so | the collection | diminishes | Not so often | the genie visits | the deer | gaze across the lake | the beautiful girl | adds you as a friend and then | vanishes into April, 1984 | There is less romance, there are more | maintenance manuals and | flow charts to help you | understand the disaster or the | marvellous work of art | At night the shelves are different, but | no one ever comes back from the night | How quickly you are dying now, with the rush of | spilled ink, if | you remember that? — and the sun | breaks up against closed eyes | which veto | all the vision of that moment for | a moment… | At the very summit of the mountain | after months of climbing, you found | in the snow | your dead companions | and the bible | and this year’s flames

Yes, I read it, but | it was a while ago, and | basically | I’ve forgotten it all… | She will be there tonight | imparting the wisdom of her kindness | The boy will be there | with his gadgets and all the impetuous | rush of spilling spirit, COME ON! | The girl will be there, she will | show me a beetle she | stole from Eden, an ivory box | carved with images of Jane Austen or Dulce María Loynaz, and I will | pretend to steal | that box from her, and tell her “It’s what great | poets do” || The mountain is so lonely without climbers | expending their lives upon its brutal flanks | I cannot | stem that nocturnal | ink | slipping out all over | the floor and | draining down | through cracks in the floorboards | and I think “A lot of words | were hidden in that | broken bottle, their young bodies | never formed to tears or praise” || In the morning | I try to compile their beauty | once again, but | I always fail! | The car | needs fixing, I check | the manual, and the Ark | bumps up against rock || A genie | looks over my shoulder, as I | ponder the exhaust | At night | I am taken in there, but once in there | you never come back


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