They describe terrible events, people talk about words | She doesn’t look like her eyes are connected to thoughts, but I guess they must be? | and her thoughts are connected to who knows what? | The wind blows hundreds in furling and unfurling crowds, they peel off | some ascend | they sit in offices | make love in their own special place | the storm | never mistakes them for opponents, it works at the levels of atoms and nothing | It is your skin comes off at the appropriate moment, later the bones | “Wow, it was such | a great feeling, you know?” Ray said | Then the fire re-arranges the atoms, how energy is deployed | some end among trees, the hospitals bulge | They go further out, but there’s no escape | In the end, it gets very pure, like an idea in the desert

Their useless bones can fill a factory | but the sacred bones, we worship | Meagre and jaundiced, even for ghosts | they scratch around | trying to find their hair | their violins and cases | They are no fun, so we forget them | we can’t help it | the gunships clutter up those night skies | some didn’t even realise | it was time to fly | She comes hard | bolting against the headboard | gobbling down a rarefied air | letting out a chain of pearls | long gaps in the silver thread | slower and slower | smaller and smaller | and the ogre groans | his godlike violence | spun like candyfloss into a feathery ache | the sort | young people get before they can understand | what is happening to them | Shovel them back into piles | masses of them | keep the volume up | don’t listen to the old sounds | coming from the warehouses | the sheds | the tents | Mist, softer than a baby’s sleeping breathing | tender as first-hour petals | we collect our footsteps like precious jewels | picking them up on the shallow dunes | beside the hush, hush of | lapping water | Whole city | slips down to a strip of ignited magnesium, flares | super-white before the chars and ashes | blackened ribs of old timbers | wrecked boats of entire lives | The cuckoo’s call | woos and echoes | velvet among the steepening woods | our children | come to a muddled halt | morsels of mystery blossoming in their widened eyes | at the bend, where the river slows, and the current | is impeded by the bodies of several dead horses


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