Making up ground | And all the days with their numbers | places to put a hope, build the ladder of a plan | Love sets in, you are too tired to deny it | or to negotiate a true position | sift the cases of the rival claimants | Anyone will do | just as long as there is peace | and the laws apply to us | in the right way | The old | fall behind, but over the bright race | a clear and neutral sky requires | nothing of winners or losers | and our partial breath | joins it | In autumn, a grave silence | stillness we bring a subtle | consternation into | Do you still go back there, where the words were spoken, under the ancient limes | and the two young truths | we thought would stay | true | began to age | and turned to another | kind of truth | helplessly making us others | mutating with mutating times?

A sorcerer’s geography | two cold poles, at the world’s girth | heat | the swelter abandoned | railway tracks | shimmer into | Who is the ruler of your mind? | Life, as a monarch impulse | butterfly | of tattooed paper fluttering | out the corner of an eye? | It has a dying fall… | Switched the plates, rebirthed the silver car | drove off into the desert, prophets with side-whiskers and sawn-offs, another | king or queen | Look at all the stars we’ve mapped | the moons we’ve weighed | so we may find a path | to trot along | beside the imperial | march of reason | I love you so much | this voice of yours, with its freight | of unknown sorrow, latent | pleasures | it is everything | I wanted | believe me, and forgive me if I have | stopped listening

 


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

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