Room peeled | left glistening with want | A solicitors’ space for the flowers, dry | air to be dripped into my eyes and mouth, but | much later | for now | we can still feel the majestic | river, ever | attentive to its task of flowing | Bridal | days | Brilliant | betrothal of frost, fine hoar for the glinting shoes of fairytale horses | and you see it, unlacing | lacing | unlacing… | unveiling… | A rich and cultured | resting | place | Then why am I | hunting my class enemy with guns | across black rocks, and glaciers | ice floes, bones | sticking out of my flesh, a martyr’s | parsimony, oh so | la-di-da? | All | fur coat and no knickers, I | find unrest wherever I can, wherever a mirror | shows me in | (and mirrors always | show me in…) | Surveyors pursue deer over our carpet | woven in a bankers’ pattern | Under our feet | miles down | silent crystals gather mass and would | sparkle as brutal chandeliers | if only they could be | broken up | into the light

Seafarers’ shoes | touch earth strangely | Flint cobbles | an arch | of whale bones | each sight a last | sight of land | New soles | for my love | buckles of pure | German silver | hear the sweet, pertinent ring | of their smiths’ | hammers in the northern air | cold | east coast stay | Frost, too, in the maid’s high | voice raised | like a toast | to death and her children | and to other such travellers | in song | Should I | go, I will only | go, my dear | as the sea | goes in waves | from the pebble shore | that is | only a short way, only | ebb to flow | for you | alone | having put all these journeys in me | put in me, too, ever only one | return

 


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

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