It is easy, after all, to imagine for years | the wrong why and wherefore of your life | to imagine the path you’re on | is different to the actual one | and late | in the day | it may occur to you | perhaps you’re not that nice person in the mirror, but someone | else | someone harder? meaner? lesser? | The white statues in the park | athletes, gods, philosophers | don’t see the slugs on their eyes | the moss and lichen on the plinths | beneath them | Can you remember | the faces before the cracks appeared? | Those were old times, the years of Soyuz and Apollo, and although | we thought them young, then | they were always old | because now | we live in an era | where time itself is old, and can never be new again | So thinks the senator | carapaced | in her droning limousine | and glancing out at wheatfields | where a light aircraft might crash | she gradually loses heart | and settles herself to the fresh corruption

We are lovers, at heart | for the time being | And so of course there are politics | We’re not so young or naive | to think our love | has no place to keep under the stars | that there is | no grand scheme to which we’ll fit | our trembling solutions | our shudders | of animals yoked | to angel drivers | our personal style | It’s tempting | admittedly | to take our play for the only | play | refuse to accept we are merely | parts | and we sense that we have author in it | at the very least | a touch of genesis | Across the surface | of the moon | the lunar module glides | the infants | of an explorers’ age | unwind their air’s umbilicus | and float in space | swaddled in their clunky suits | conquistadors of vacuum | Because these are new times | and the quiet moon | reflects the sun’s loud | light in the eyes | of slugs crawling upwards | into the chiselled hair | of athletes | gods | philosophers

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