He went up to the boy and led him out of the graveyard
— Boris Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago

There it is, right on the very first page | Call it, The Fundamental Description of Culture | Or, in the leaves, For The Others | Or we could riff on it a little | if we were feeling playful | not easy during these difficult days, but then | when was it otherwise? | but say | The First Act of Culture | Lovers, asserting with their bodies | wordless statements of affection | perhaps a cynic might see | as a form of desperate optimism | but I see, today, as an echo | of children, asserting their games | a grace over the material | in the leaves and in the leaves beyond | where the leaves fall | if that is possible | yes, surely, it is possible?

Put the book aside | with its thousand tales of silence | The pages bound to each other | as the express was bound for Munich | or Brussels or Prague | The bell is tolling | and you know | for whom | in the polished café in Vienna | accidentally | striking the edge of the bone | china cup with the silver | of the sugar tongs | chimes quietly through the polished void | in the story the narrator is telling | a subtle | sign of continental drift | with no end in sight, no mooring for our ships of state | the perpetual fate | of all our messy resurrections | Let’s keep up our game — explore the aspects of our characters | chaste, violent, confused and lewd: let’s | accept the classic complete | works | is over | and our efforts marked with the exits and iridescent | addictions of episodes and soap | temporarily | forever | ‘To be continued…’


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