The story of my life? he said | It starts with “Who knows?” and ends with “Who cares?” | Tiny drops of rain, as if from an atomiser | notes of sandalwood and citrus | a time for lambs | Then a trip by boat, though “voyage” seems too grandiose, your touch | coming through the wall | We lose some of our friends along the way | enjoy a picnic by the river, where our boy | sculls past, we lose | more friends | The monuments of solitude glisten | in the still night air | but we will stay here | until it is time to escape | and escape | if we are lucky | The vase, from overseas, perfectly shattered | resting in its packaging | like a young bird tucked in its nest | And the box with the necklace, cedarwood

With a pert shuff shuff shuff sound, you spray yourself with perfume, the world | troubles me for a little loose change | Tech giants march over breakfast | grapefruit from Mexico | the gulf gently increases | We struggled to get a decent view, the crowds were awful | before we knew it, the motorcade had passed | Buried in a diary, the hesitant impressions | Later, first mice come, then the sea | The girl was definitely bleeding | Trimmed with forget-me-nots and roses | her nightgown blooms | the goblin drooled over his hoard | of stolen dreams | which gleamed like chisels and files | in a toolbox | You looked up from the words you were reading


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