The last warm day of autumn | What follows? | A dry voice in a background, on the phone | “I’m sorry it’s been so hectic over the past few weeks” | The heights | Tsvetaeva, perhaps with coral, perhaps with crows | Or was it an opal, I forget… | An unrepentant beauty | Luscious for mouth and ear, carnelian, sea, beach… | An assault: I would say, “an endless assault”, to take | the heights | Weary old voices: “No, it’s impossible” | “Foolish fantasy” | “Incompatible” | Dry voices, with a taste of dust from ivy stems, their truths | nothing of serpents or milk | nothing of the last warmth of the last | warm day of autumn | And reasons the heights | fall | laid out, as calm and inert as cuff-links | on a walnut dresser | early in the winter evening

Huddled | perfectly | the repose | of a yolk in an egg | Mist is taking green into its silver again | “If you move at all, I’ll break” | Move an inch | A millimetre | A breath, a moment… | In a young boy’s blood | girls begin to flow differently | “A delicate stage”, the adults | say, but what | do we know? | It is not like the sea | The sea wants no end to our glance, to its darkness | You bring me | such darkness, such distance from | any carnelian, such | an end | Repenting beauty | noting at night-fall, as I change for the evening | taking out the pearl | cuff-links you didn’t | give me | that my neck hurts

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