The world shrinks drop by drop | your heart rests on one side, moss grows over it, these words | are good for something | It is the green of old English legends and fairy-tales, the moss, and the heart | is grey | much sun-seen | like an ancient stone | Delete all the contacts, leave a saucer | of plum-pits, the dark | meteors of their sugar burnt off | transmutation | drips through the spoons and the ghosts, rain on tin rooves, collects in buckets and barrels | Mules in long trains set off on their journey | it is | a gesture of the arm outstretched and at the end of the arm, your hand | opening, you will not know | what it is the mules carry | but almost certainly | mixed in their burden will be | fragments of the crushed | stone of your heart

And part is the separation from God | the yearning for God | the exquisite state between | absence, loss, the lie of the light on the rolled-still | peaches’ skin | Round and round the poet | Rumi whirled | sheer pleasure at the praise | of Allah in the chanting | goldsmiths’ hammers | wrapped in a cracking frost of genies’ waking | echo of clusters of goat-bells | high up, close to the snow | an ethereal | tintinnabulation | Yet, drop by drop, the world shrinks | though you contain | a Chinese cavalry in your throat | circuits of words flinch down to whispers | sun | slows the mule train on the mountain’s slopes | quaff the amber of their quiet voices, holed | with distance and forgetfulness | turned | tighter and tighter | to a point of stone | spun in | moss and shade, in a forest glade | Hicksville | waiting for the hooves | of young bucks and does | to be scattered free | from the old cold circles of our destinations

 


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