Collecting the ruins and putting them in place | a not ruined | place | Reading a page, looking in a mirror, examining | one’s conscience | — not ruined | places | Just add a little time in | a pinch of moments | A secret museum | in our lives | small, hidden acts | of curation | his lips | his fingertips | scented with lemon juice | her graceful | forehand | imparting copious top spin | enter these | into collections, and recollections… | He understood, at last, what they mean by “fall” | when they say | “we fall in love” | and the true implications of “too late” | Old age | permeated their thinking | He grew crotchety | but when his bitterness subsides | he is mellow | They waited for the supermoon | to rise | she heard the dust | blowing through her head | drawn along the veins | a pleasant sound | of thistledowns colliding | Reading a paper, looking in a mirror… | He slept with his feet cradled in her lap | But the sleep was too long | And this is not the place for the Persian miniature | The sun | should be to the east | And the sea | does not go here

He hadn’t meant to be angry | But the climate of his mood changed | without his really noticing | the light grew bloody | the corners colder | the shadows hardened | His study was neatly arranged | desk shipshape | pencils, Mac, anglepoise | papers assembled | as if on parade | in military formations | And the books ordered the facts | disciplined the acts of years | atoms, bound and bound, swarmed to zinc, or gold, or lead | The hot tap in the en suite was leaking | The crack in the ceiling reminded him (he was staring up) | of the course of the Nile | complete with | Blue Nile and White Nile | Down, down, down into the depths | slipped Atlantis | and in between two ticks | of the hallway clock | Rome fell | Why was he so furious? | Pieces from different | jigsaw puzzles | the years | spent forcing an impossible picture | onto the place | And now things were so terminally | fucked up | the head of a young Bacchus | on the body of Napoleon | and the hands of Akhmatova | on the wrists of the demon | barber of Fleet Street | He wanted to give up, but found himself | entranced by the light of the supermoon | on a darkened street | where autumn was somehow | laced with spring | Her fingernails | grew epic in the touching | No, it was too | complicated: the enemy of his enemy | was just another enemy, there were too | many enemies… | She was the only one who soothed him, although that was not | her job | Still, she was great with pity | and when he fretted over the set | piece | she let him know | It’s okay | That’s for the scent of the sea breeze, and for all | the young | growing more naked | That’s how the ships | came to anchor | That’s where | the sea goes

 


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