Having hunted | all the lions of summer | the lines extinct, and the songs | fossils | I come back to you | Making a career | of the impossible | and you | are impossible, the volcano | is mute and doesn’t breathe, we tap it | eggshell | its porcelain temple | gives off such a sweet chime, is that | death? | is it | puberty? | Exquisite | to the heart | I am mute, my voice | has gone into the stone to wait | the wings | are not the wings, now | you have no end, and | here, I come to it

Exquisite | to the spirit | always the hands await us | Touchless | Skin of bisque, whipped whites | of eggs | cirrus clouds | The headlights come on in the early evening | inside them | a suggestion | of fluffed | feathers | secrets of the dovecote | under the hands, and back | where the skin again | is related to fire | The dead | preserved for a little while | mew to us, the living | We crumble their ash | to powder, in the wind | while in their nests of spires | old bells creak and swing | and the ground | like love for the first time | lets go of the sky and begins | to tremble…


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

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