Going deeper into delusion, knowing the futility, as children | excited | venture into a sorcerer’s wood | Only in the lie do I feel anymore | and only by lying | hope | What would you say to that? | Heaping up | the fragments of other people’s dreams | the floating | debris of their ideas | building a kind of mound, up on the moors, a ram’s skull among the heather | not the end of anything except a thought of it | Tying all these sensations together with an argument, but then | growing tired | the flood of sleep rising, the screaming gulls | leaving a trail of glances | turning elsewhere || When you play, I still get goosebumps | Your touch on the keys is so sure, your poise when you rest your fingers | seems to imply a beautiful promise, or perhaps | it’s a memory, the way | a storm is stored | in raindrops sparkling in sunlit leaves and branches | afterwards | Just before you start, in that pause | before the music | you are at your most peaceful | Regardless of your | classical training | you were made so unhappy in our love | it feels | unfair, somehow | Yet, we do our best | each night | milking the venom | softly, patiently | pulling the fangs | painting to still life | clumps of grapes | figs | pomegranates | peaches | swell from the tip of a brush | of kolinsky sable | then the apricots | roll empty, the job | is done for now | we fall back | stupid | so terminally | stupid || Reduced to something less | even than a guesstimate, it seems to lie — but not rest — between | ab ovo and in media res | Breaking off through thoughts | preparing, quite casually, to weep again | the happy and the healthy | go on around us | and we half rise | as if to join them | There was a vast depth to the moonlight | that evening, for some reason | I found it hard to believe | the source of that light was the sun | Deeper, too, into the words… | There are so many clever endings | but this isn’t one


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