“but instead of an answer, there came only intenser longing”
— Kawabata, Thousand Cranes

What is the boiling point | of honey? | Warmer these evenings, with a scent of grasses | across the veranda | moonlight eases its wedding shadows round, or the gaga | moon drops lumps of bone as it passes | Through the soft vent | we slip | asking for a single thought, arriving only where | it always varies | Hand slipping from the tiller | stars gape and beg for water | their silver cherubs’ faces like exhausted children’s | but we don’t | yet have children | So quiet here | helicopters circling over disaster states hardly | make the stalks of young wheat | sway at all | In this hot cell | know the wet flesh and caresses | so intimate as to grow confused | as to who belongs to | what, but | at the edge of the moment | still sense the snow’s flakes of dice | starting to roll | while the journey we beckon on | recoils but calls | endlessly, forever starting our only answer

Not enough | beauty to go round | not even in the wind | moving through May willows | therefore we want, therefore | we suffer | Brilliant as we are, what brings our brilliance | will not wait | to settle or to satisfy, it is | in the distance | Dry as we grow, dizzy | tottering where every | step is our first | we can’t | stop dreaming | or even for one instant | put down our thoughts | to quench with stillness | the ceaseless horizon’s gliding thirst


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