World mid-cloud | The winds have our names | Haze, moisture, a sense of space rearranged, the palaces | don’t mean so much today, are we | falling? | No love for days, barometers | attend the pressure | if we leave | the palaces, will they ever | let us back in?

Yes, falling | The winds lose our names


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