I’ll dine with the Kernow kings | their stern faces and fine, blond sideburns | their wine that tastes of nevermore… | And they have people to rule | taxes to levy | the wheat is different for them | They are modest | give little away | neither power nor tears | Cold before love, but afterwards…

Responsible for more | than we can care for | does it explain all of this sorrow? | Spending too long with the slot machines | driving too fast down country lanes | drinking too much, and spoiling her wedding | divorced too young | too alone | to come back | all too, too, too… | But the others are despicable, in any case | too full of wit and knowledge | to notice | the things they know | are bagatelles | dainties to woo | ignorant children from childhood wolves | No | Slowly growing horns | and too cold to risk | letting you really live, or perhaps | even both of us | I’ll end, as usual, where sleep | washes me up | and washes you | gently away | Sleep is the greatest bliss | I didn’t make sleep | I am not responsible | for this

 


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

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