We try to see | the error of our ways | but have already taken | a wrong turning | There are fewer landmarks | the ancient lighthouse is a floating cloud | the suave epigrams | are ashes | the smart one-liners | wither | for lack of wit or oxygen | the towers, well, we’ve heard | what happened to them | heard and forgotten, or not heard | and so are spared | the complex labour of forgetting | the dispersal of the swarm | of butterflies | the assignment of the memorial urn | to the relevant | alcove | the kissing of a tormented brow | ascribed | to a different lover | the immortal purity of the perfect song | ear-marked for oblivion | Slowly, though, the rival companies | will each abandon their own productions | and join together for the final play | whether they will or no | war | has a way of making that happen | History is the maze, surely | and culture is the maze | and class | and spirit, too, and reason, oddly, and value | they are the maze | and the maze is at once | titanic and ethereal | ancient and instant | and the maze itself is full of mazes, so we find ourselves | fretting | over the cold, empty hearts beating | in a giant’s tears | are they real? | Tracking back, we only discover | we’re out of time | events disclose to us | new ways of being erroneous | we listen to echoes, never the song | such | is mortal purity | the mistaking of gestures | for action in eternity | or somesuch | state | Don’t ask for maps | no one | has mapped the maze | the very act of mapping | creates the maze | Hope, I guess, you can ask for | a rest-stop | on the way to the temple | to Thebes | to Hell | to the mall | hope, an aesthetic | a certain | elaboration of the maze | some cool graffiti | or baroque sundown | pop art explosion | of colour and ice cream | but don’t | ask for the exit | or if you do | be very careful | who you listen to | It’s like Jon always says | if you want to get out | One thing is clear | You wouldn’t start from here


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