Incommunicado | guts of the peach, the slow trickle of raw juice | catacombs | of isolated moments | the number of cut diamonds lost | in an earthquake | The unspoken things, in other words | A menace hung over us | a terrible menace not to do with poems or | readings of poems | close readings | critiques of poems | theories of poetry | manifestos | reviews | not directly associated | with purveyors of landfill | or the dull, somnolent music | from the aged quartet | at the academicians’ ball | some minuet | gas for butterflies | Chatter increases | but nothing will distract | Milly from Sal today | Kris from Ben | Smoke over the bombed buildings | seems smug somehow | the “I told you so” fires | the “chickens coming home to roost” | reference to ice ages or dinosaurs | Beasts | assemble | And you never call these days | not even on a destroyed phone

Not juice but blood | Would you like to see with the eye of a god, omnisciently | all things from all times at once? | Torn from the bowels of some old ark or other | creatures of every kind | ripped the heart out of the vessel and the mountains never reached? | no dry land | for those helpless fellows | So Milly is so deep into Sal | and the shadow passes over the city, the noise of the families, at last, begins to calm | Taking a plane to a foreign land | and Milly so desperate | with Sal gone | feeling that all the tiny cogs and wheels | holding her nerves in place | were coming loose | a giraffe might really be on fire, how | would they put it out? | No one had bothered | to inform me of the situation | and I was at home | reading International Mulch | the sound of banality | in the service of entropy | Some say the disaster will | come from volcanoes | Others, just from plastic bags or a particular type of wasp | Thin, thin, thin air | Don’t tell me you called, and I wasn’t there?

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