Constancy! Isn’t that the queer thought?
— Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier

To find oneself again in a place one once knew | and gather up again the powder of sensations | blown by the breeze hither and thither | mostly | thither | The evening light on the Englischer Hof | a warm dusk orange chilled with deepening greys | and characters in novels, with their manicured tales | details | that arrest the reader’s eyes | Martingales, Chiffney bits, boots | the magical | conundrum of narrators and points of view… | In the airport, unable to concentrate | putting the book aside | and, though ill, typically | English of the old school | not one to make a scene | To revive, in other words, the lost | passage of a life | to blow the dust back into flesh, the flesh | back into want, and heat, and time | and all the other things we have no charge of | The sex that night was great, but not the sex with you | that was just the same | as always | tender but a little wearisome | a loving chore | like winding an old-fashioned clock | that could never keep good time… | Sitting on the edge of the bed | smoking | listening to the exuberant melee of mopeds in the Vietnamese night | with nothing so cumbersome as a right or wrong | feeling I belonged there | precisely where I did not belong


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

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