Placing a stone | on a breeze || Holding down an edge | with ink, with | hope || Very quickly, you come to the valley of | generalisation | why do you | rush there so soon, can’t you let | life be, the ladybird’s | gambler’s trickle, the | line of freckles | recalling Orion? || Propping up a corrupt regime | sunrise or a lazy love | wanting to get off the train | before your stop | and your headache | a chasm into which | your own bones are falling, and the gong | booms a golden trash over and over, Who doesn’t want MORE money?… || Such a grand work, Death, intruding | into the piano’s subtle / birdsong music, the rain’s erratic history, the eternal battle between cats | and dogs… || Over there, the great forest waits | accumulated from birch and pine, the paths of all the myths | go here, whoever follows them | may not return, such is | desire || We will not | wrangle this thing into sense, not now, not ever | It is not made for the motionless | as sleep | is not made for the waking || No, we must make do | again | with everything | the fresh start | our character, for whom | surprise permits us | the limit of insight, for whom | the very nature of a word is otherwise

Wild love in a tame love game | It sometimes happens | Her slender feet in golden slippers | remind me of a beauty | oddly classic | a moment should be marked | by MGM or Universal | In such a way | I am sent down | to the humble things | the world of details – threads | creases | pins | not lit by a path of | principle or braced | by the scaffold of conclusions or ideas, but | broken away | into themselves, or at least, into what | is left of them | when the words have finished, and the final | dream of trees | begins


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem June 2013)