Taking more ghosts, the crook of the elbow | river of the glance | The centre is empty, so was the periphery: the mid-part? | empty, too… | You mean, you expected me to…? | Did you really think that I would…? | Goods stacked in the warehouse | moments stacked in a clock | You go back over the same ground, ants, rind | of a sweet watermelon | slop of pips and twigs | from ash trees | Morning raises its curtains on | the bench, the waste bin | but no actors come on stage this time | What were you thinking? | Why would I…? | Hidden, private play | obscure scene | even to the players | Planes zigzagging over the ocean | Taking a real gun | to the photo-shoot | Gestures, so heavy, they topple | like eroded cliffs | Ghosts, with no | haunting | River with no sea
You speak with forked tongue | She thought she could come to the end of her solitude, but | she let the crowd go a different way | she always takes | the quietest path | slipping left | The doomed mingle with the civilians | The privileged | look out at us from their | palace of lenses | studios with shadows of | lamps, aura of gold and plenty | of time | At the picnic, he cried and his daughter | played with the velvet pigs | too young | to notice | Your eyes don’t see your memories | nor your hands | touch the flesh | of what you lived | The wind | packs dust in its bags and | takes it away | the lipstick | crescent on the elbow, too••
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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, March 2014)
hypergram 