We ended up once more in the last days of summer | Our hats too small to hide a rabbit | and T shirts, no room for doves | But the shore had room for the seawaves | and you could still laugh at me | and my pompous waffle | and I was happy | We lay on our Sindbads’ bed | and played with cigarette lighters | span walnuts round and round | on the hotel’s glass table top | waited for the love to come again | and the love | came again | We felt peaceful | Windfall plums’ slow pelt on cracked tarmac | over those days | summoned us, passive magicians | to perform | our weary magic | and in the evenings | we read Blok | and wondered about the grief of the cranes | who stream overhead and | feel no grief | Though we are not destroyers | we were renewed | and, after resting through into the autumn | set ourselves to the new destruction

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