It means “to love for the very last time” | Air in between the fingers | The slower moving of two flying birds | a ploughed field below them | soil a dry grey | the sky | Heights, everywhere — insoluble heights, and a little trouble | mixed in with them, nothing | to worry about | “Sure, fine”, we say | “Yeah, not bad, not bad” | “Good” | “Yeah, okay. Fine. Good” | An eternity for the phone to ring, the train to come | Handles fallen off the wind, birch trees, words like “sorry” or “long”… Can’t pick up | the Earth, no need to, anyway | In each moment, a subtle crisis, when will these feelings end? | A precipice in crumbs | in apple pips | A little more to the left | Maybe a little more | to that side?

Heights, everywhere — insoluble, and a little | heaven mixed in with them | Is it like an appendix, a gripe | from an earlier skull and monkey | a calling card from Eros, chevaliers, an age of sonnets and Zeppelin? | Could read | Montesquieu, maybe, or Montaigne? — the evening has its autumn feel | Camus too recent, too clunky | Not “seeing angels”, as the French say, but | lifting the Earth, like anyone else, then leave it off in sleep | lift again | haul a few steps | in this, or that, direction | And in the dawn, a little sunset, always a little sunset | in everything | and in the sunset | a little heaven | two birds, of different species | one, the slower, a crow, but both | flying the same way | across a wide, ploughed field | grey under the clear, cool, blue sky | one moving more slowly, but not | being left behind


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