Under the wrath of life he found me | Carried across the logs with the amber moss | my slender body | blood that comes for the weekend | My tender | horns | still green | robin’s eggs and pine cones | in my pocket | one hundred yards, never been so far | the cliff to the sea | mist to the ground | no softer than his touch | Under the wrath of life he found me | Under the rush of music crowned me

Dab of lint, snowflake charter, and Dettol | sweeter than Chanel | it was | a different story | Legs too fine | to take the jump | the sea immense and its stroking fur | so close to my ear | so far | Hidden, hidden | from myself | what I had been | what I am | what I will be | until he | found me | Who | wants to be numbered | among the strong | when a break | a hop and a | graze | can lead you here | among the pine cones | and wet | fragments of shells | I know he | means to love me | Turns up the music | to drown our secret’s | coming | More tender | than my first real sleep | Softer | than than the cotton | wool’s | red blush | The acrid sting | stronger | than the kiss | which tells | Softer than a long decline | Sweeter | than Chanel

 


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

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