Walk through the buried forest | See the tourists gulping diamonds | A legendary figure passes us by | Laugh at the locals with their hurricane club | See the river with its enigma | extended through space and time | reflections of anonymous trees | nameless to our ignorance | Coffee in a cabin | among the pines | Fall quiet, fall still, fall… |  A beauty that cannot be | contained or measured | haunts us for all | our cleverness | so we grow sad, and | wonder why must the days always go, though we | are hurt by it?

It was a great storm blew the houses down | Storm of ’08, maybe | ’07? | Tremendous damage, Carthy blown | quite away, we never | found the body | Fishing boats a mile inland | Why do I sometimes feel my life | is like the world of mice | at the feet of giants? | Their huge | mountainous boots | their shuffle that is thunder and their newspapers | with whirlwind flutter, headlines | of no use to us? | We are too small for them to see, yet | we exist | They never found | Julie’s body, either

 


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

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