Putting thoughts into space | Blot out the sun with a thumb, how quickly can I get to | South Kensington now? | Like a box of toy magnets | flipping and | lumping together, mating insects | grains of Thai | sticky rice | and an X-ray | of a thistledown, just before the lips | pout to | blow… | Have to get my | head together | do the things that need to be done | Otherwise… they’ll be left, like | bottles, glinting | half submerged | washed up on a beach | No one will do those things | not even find them | and I… | I will have wasted my whole life…

The planet tilts, the storms have different names each year | Hurricane Angelo, my life’s work | in your hands, I beg you… | Pass by this island, where an old | weathered creature flops and shudders | has no interest in the Psalms or iPhones | but gurgles on a drip of sugar, licks up ants | hisses, growls, when a more | ethereal spirit teases | or the old slavedriver with his sextant and his London town | urges with lashes | work for a pointless purpose | There, Polaris, and there | the Plough | patterns and orders with no god to hold them | still or stable | Better to drop all these words and wishes | into a black | point of space, sleep in the coolest mud | wake to the withdrawn shawls of ebbing tides | flump to the shore | attracted by a star of glint | winking from a trawl of shells and the endless | creep and slump of the wet | grey sand…

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

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