Perfect September day | I wrote in my journal | Equivocation as so fine, it’s almost a form | of satiation | The blank of the sky | the pale concrete of the buildings | poised between | the old heat and the new coolness | freshness of loss | You’re packing your things | looking ahead | with you, no matter the season, it’s spring | and I hope it always | will be | On just such a day | balanced, I mean, in scales | feathers may | disturb | like the surface of a pool | one hot summer morning | tickled to ripples by miniscule flies | or beetles | Napoleon would have ordered his forces | to begin their retreat | from Moscow | and some “president” or other | commanded show trials | or like a trapped bird, an angel stir | Mary’s attention in a quiet room | or Newton watch an apple fall | into the matrix of the next limitation | on just such a perfect day | full of leaving and staying | but maybe with a little more | decision… | We say our goodbyes, I promise | to call | and you take away | your scent and rising | of early April | The pale | concrete of the buildings | opposite | the blank of the sky | There’s no point | adding more words | I closed my journal

We burned the books | the libraries on secluded country estates | the prints and atlases | we didn’t need the antique maps | they held no advice | for the way ahead | and, in any case, were lamentably inaccurate and wrong | We didn’t need the temples, or the gods they served | or the decadent novels | full of drugstores, salons and sex | and so-called love stories | or hysterical operas | or angst-filled plays | rotten with suffering or psychology | we didn’t need the portraits | or the statues of murderers | we didn’t need stolid tracts | or soul-searching essays | or cries from the heart | we didn’t need the spirit | or the guides to | fellow travelling | or the gilded faeces | of dandies or dilettantes | or any other forms designed | to temporise true truth away | We shot the writers | or set them to work in the fields | minding pigs | or laying sewers | proper work | useful | we dispensed entirely | with sickly romances, and culled florid prose | we rid ourselves of the flowers | of individual | good and evil | and of elaborate clauses | and committed our lives | purely to just causes | Their kind of self | isn’t enough | was never enough | will never | be enough | We must act, and be actual | For us, life is simply a matter | of making room | That’s what winter is for | crematoria and digging tombs | the future

from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2015)