I am waiting for you in the last warm day | of summer | We can say goodbye to reasons | motives | choice | even history | there’s just waiting | I suppose it is a kind of exhaustion | and a warm day | and what comes afterwards | Of course, I add things in | the white coffee cups, the white saucers, the books, the traffic’s grind and tide, sirens of ambulances on Hills Road | the fluid parley of sunshine and shadows | the soul | the spirit | the big things and the little things | I suppose, after all, it is a kind of choice | but really, deep down, there’s just this sublime, trivial, rather beautiful | emptiness between | you and I | we’ll call it waiting | and the flies, too | And the girls at the next table are singing Maryland and Massachusetts, good old Michigan | the last warm day of summer | laps over them | washes away a little more of their young lives | towards autumn, towards my thoughts, and so | by graceful laws | of the intangible | towards you | They don’t realise it, but I guess it is history, I guess it is love, the reason | I’m waiting here by the road | and my thoughts drift like the last | snowflakes to the avalanche | You’re not coming, I know | but maybe someone is coming | and they will do | so we can be relieved | of this curious duty | and you can cease | not coming, and I can cease | waiting for you not to come | and the last warm day of summer can be passed on | to people who sing, and care, for whom it isn’t | too late | Or do you really have a different plan? | I can half hear you saying | plaintively, over the phone: I told you I was coming | I told you! | Why didn’t you | wait?

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