Back to the old routine | Herding ghosts, walking under the shadows of a flock of cranes | Treading the wheels of words, the nymphs in odes | Past DAYDREAMER around 9.15, after the long sleep, everything | turning back into money | Wrapped in wings like bats in trees, no sounds | come down the line, voices | somewhere | still trickle from pipework, in a seminar | they discuss symbolism and Blok | Clocks | predictably | tick | As the train slows into a green halt, music | begins to leak from heads | who were those phantom visitors bringing | fragments of soul and scores? | Feeding the storm | with volts and games | only years to go | shovelling the sweet garbage | of algorithms and butterflies | back and forth | bodies | filling the boxes | Librium here | Thorazine | roles for iodine, too | Ten paces | to safety | yet | we won’t take them | because the snow is so pretty! | And the night? | Putting the stars in their place | filing the moon | locating the forest | in the archive, yes | and all the monkeys, too | And the unrest | in the sea’s | heart? | where the new islands | are being born? | Pinning down the lights, arresting the chemicals | parking the atoms | in the right spot | be reassured | this is your home, and your home | the same as it always was | a station café | ever ready to be there | for as long as need be | as you wait between journeys


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