Very hot | too much summer tipped into one day | humid graves for willing bodies | flowers’ relief in wilting | cut from the source of | shade and sap | Shimmers and rolls across the viscous water, the gong’s | doomed golden | toll that wakes the soldiers up | damp into their jungle green | Lit hold | lovers setting fire to furniture | toss sweat | over their shoulders as they run | Horses | harness flame and rip the city | The coolest | sit back and go | still | when the others | flash to greedy motion | spurred by nonsense on | into their goldrush moment

Snapping down the lightning catches | Suitcase for the runaways | Wandering through a landscape of burnt trees | posing for photographs | Stuffing diamonds into their mouths | Too much order | = fame, a kind | of senility | When gangsters | make love to their own guns, it’s time | to get decent | Jump where the music | rises to rebuild the city | make a monument | from clouds | drifting | out the corner of an eye | shut the door to old | nightclub thoughts | walk fresh into the morning | and to the dawn | give a new dawn


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