You think you are reading, but what is that? | Most of the world isn’t in the poem, therefore | why come to the poem? | when there is so much more, so much else, so much better, endlessly | elsewhere… | Her father was a painter of signs | they made a fire for him and burned him in his own house | and I remember | undoing the buttons on the flies | of her jeans for the first | time, I didn’t feel any shadow pass over me | or sense the presence of | an accidental god passing by | Towards the end, a postman wanders into reality, wavers | is cut | and then there is just the individual and the clouds — mostly | the clouds…

Numbering the flames 1 to 7 | or some such foolish venture | The savages came whooping out of the woods | the music tilted everything towards a dream | like a lyric poem | makes the sigh of | the world rushing off into itself | sound | for a moment | like bare feet cracking twigs | on the forest floor, or | the hoarse calm wrath of the fire | consuming a home | and a whole collection of truths | If I say, “Why, look at the world | from the point of view of clouds, what | sense does the traffic make, or the people | waving their guns?” | it can’t stop the postman | walking out of shot | or the loss of innocence | being found in these words, over and over again…

 


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

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