Made a shining locus, a hole | where nothing was | Attracts meanings to it, as fish are said to be | drawn to a lamp | Cancel your next moment, implement new plans | A tent in a forest | and a man made of cakes, too sweet, too dangerous | you hear him shuffling outside, and there are shadows of leaves | cast on the canvas | an overwhelming | scent of sugar and cream | who wrote him, originally? | A party of strangers, gathered in a hotel | a blizzard traps them for days | Imbued with a slanted spirit, the recourse to explanations is too easy, the fire too private, as | only your children burn that night | Hovering and shimmering, like a dragonfly | you’re not sure will disappear | into the woods or across the river | There is no vanishing at all, she tells you | only the apportioning of different locations | you add in the loss, but I don’t listen | Strength and control come towards the end, and then we are once again, explicitly | engaged in the honour of battle | The right conclusion beckons | and the race for the biggest coffin | We depart towards dusk | and for our adventures | remain | only a beautiful error | and our certain fate | to rise alone in another new weather•
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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)
hypergram 