Cleaning the inside of a flame | scrubbing it out to make | the burning brighter | The mirror is also the face in the mirror | an intricate | Versailles of perception | your spirit drifting in a different | direction to your needs | Cold winter will | advise you | take these warm paths | huddle, ball up | sleep out the golden months | of gas and ice | if you come alive | after the snow | uncurl | blink those baby eyes | giant like a cute little | lemur’s eyes | tip the world into them | until you can see | all there’s to see | Beneath you | the debris of your gaze | spreads in glittering shards | and a rope waits | for hanging or for hauling | for the great way out or the great leap forward | The trees wait | the bodies in the trees | wait

Entangled in fire | Cutting through rigging as the ship goes down | Rent a car, and drive out there | or take your old camper van | into the forest with the palace and the gardens | and the bars and the clubs | skyscrapers and underground | stations | all of our next locations | The trees wait | and the bodies in the trees | miss one | Through a Hall of Mirrors | diplomat thoughts pace and muse | in imagined veins | vagabonds of affect and void | stumble | planting the woods as they go | Look anywhere in the world, and you will find | connections to a terrible mess | but scrape out the guts | of the flame, anyway | let its hollow recent light | guide us | if not free of the war, then at least | clear of its hearing | and drift into the meadows outside town | lie down on blankets, let the night come on | lit with images of mitteleuropean | mountainside castles | and take the forked path out | between the swans in your mind | and the swans on the river | late in the summer but still not | too late | and never find | you are one of the missing | oh, but | wait


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

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