It’s been the king and queen of days, but now its reign | is almost over | Too busy to come to terms | with anything | I’ve drifted through life | secretly idle | accomplishing nothing | though on this king and queen of days, it seems | a wonderful nothing | replete | with perfect details | bugs like jewels | ochre spotted petals and orange pistils | the sound of your helpless laughter | over some stupid joke of mine, it is all | in the timing | Now it’s the hour of the axe and the scaffold | the lopping off heads | the rise of the mass | We’ll slip out, and join the beggars | the long queues of us | the lazy and the fraudulent, the sick and the weak, the | workshy | And I suspect the end will be | superbly bathetic | a flump and a sigh | the forget, the forget… | Cold will come | Shadows will come

Breaking into a bank | of cloud | The journey dissipates our past | the destination looms like another chance | is it? | We have somehow happened on | end days | the rising, the rapture | the numbed | hours of the hospital | white light of the clinic and the camera, no | purple flush of sea anemones, inane | commute of jellyfish across | miles and miles of mindless ocean… | Unwittingly, we’ve seen | the great peak has passed | the city has fallen, but the forest has not yet | arrived | They should have | cut off our heads | why didn’t they? | We go our separate ways | and evening comes on, the sun | gives a longer lease to the shadows | Whisper in my ear | Say nothing, sweetly, gently, I just want | to feel your breath against my skin | Shall we talk about the lilies and the emeralds? | Just speak, and breathe and let me | feel we are still close… | No, I’ll | speak about the everything, the all, the whole | shooting match | the heights, the summits, the royal | Yes, do, it’s the same | just one of the meetings | on the day we met | And the treasure? The inexhaustible?… | No. I forget. I forget.

 


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