Helpless | Lay the heads of the angels gently down, they have | worked the long day through, though the fields | appear untouched | Fold their wings | creaking | awkwardly beneath them, have they never | needed sleep before, has weakness | not assailed them? | Can you not adapt to the bright | void where the synapse asks | and is not answered, or only with | more light, more light, yet | more light, with no | darkness to hang a scale upon, no shadow | to aid orient or to hint, at least, of depth, tomorrows or directions | only an absolute dazzle without edge or core | so we | lay the toys of our questions down, and simply cease, yet | cannot | cease, but simply | wait, yet | simply | go…

Brute | Showing the bible to a seagull | Years of famine, the Chinese | drummed all the sparrows out of the air and killed them | for eating grain | so the locusts came | and ate the crops | so the people starved | only not | the leaders | A fear of telephones is not so foolish | Fear of voices at the end | of the line, fear | of silence or ringtones, fear | a voice may vanish from the realm of sound | forever | One must be sensible | adult | rational | this is what the world is made for | the clunk and jostle in a march of rocks, the delicate | spray of ferns animated | by the waterfall’s jets, the | steaming exclamation of geysers, the exquisite | creep and fume of desert dunes, these are each | made for our reasons, our + and – and our @ | Ask the dead, therefore, to | remain dead, to lie | so very still | decay, of course, in the correct way | according to the natural laws | and all this rolling glitter in our heads | this gold and silver of disturbance | its time is over | Forgive me, then, as, helpless | I am asked “Flower” and answer “Flesh”, am told | “Honey” and answer “Steel” | Can’t | make the proper kind of sense | to hold things in the place agreed, but instead | drop the Zen stones and panic | Be | bitter in the sweet hereafter | restless, ever | malcontent | grow more dullard and less quick, mossbound, with a slow | limestone drip | When the mountain | closes over the children, let me | be among those inside the mountain | not left, alone, trying to remember | how the music went, not left, alone, trying | to forget | the music…

 


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

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