Fugitive colours | How autumn stole the sun and | roughly | a quarter of your life, lie | still against me | Tame the heat, and trail dead | tigers by their tails, a story of | poverty overcome | maraschino | cherry red in a steel town | but later | banish the personal | the forest | breathes and sings | A detective | novel | and the reader | king and queen of the | castle of sand | Even black, why not | black?

With the onset of winter | the trees are bared | So much a knife | and the cold a blade | stretch over | and kiss me, laugh your | small | snorting laugh and mumble | what sounds like | “Egg Sunday” | Curating a | flame | Trudging over | the frozen surfaces | of mile-wide lakes | a genie | wrapped in a cloth, old | burlap and moleskin | Measure of old feet | old boots | the creak of the ice | so many prizes for the plunge, why don’t you | take it? | Naked armies of the sea, far off | ride to a war on land, but you | have the castle | keep of a dry plain | and months to go before | spring sets its green | traps again…


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

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