And actually no thought or voice, but keeping place, marking | the silence | with a made-up sound | say, “meadow” | and a blue-and-white striped marquee | empty, overnight, after the wedding | the guests elsewhere | No longer building, but, with the sea, staving off | ruination | with moving lightly | like clouds in a dream | Admiring | the prettiest scar | driving at 3 a.m. | the radiance on the horizon | is the sleeping city of Detroit, where they built the cars

Also, as knights in a fable, lost on quests, pursuing phantoms | of a sorcerers’ agenda | a slow, inglorious fizzling out | drowning in their heavy armour | at the bottom of clear streams | among the lush, quiet green of a mythical England | skulls in helms | Those wounds | which bleed and bleed | enrichen and weaken | simultaneously | much to say and more to care | as supplies grow scarce | and the ocean’s porous fists | pound the crumbling shore | and every place more an island | with each melt | and fiercer thaw | Like castle towns in the distance | rendered vague by mist or storm | no grounds for betrothal | or at least, this was the feeling | of one of the parties | Like those wild, evangelical spirits | who embrace devastation | from calm rooms, down elm-lined avenues | As if, through a series of moments, each a puzzle, to arrive in a starving nation | where no puzzles matter anymore, but how to eat | Broken down, changing the wheel | of a sixties’ Packard | worried | we would not get there | Like being happy with the outcome | even though we realised | we had been conned | And actually, no ear or word | no call | no sound at all | but the chatter of wealthy brokers | proposing new problems | to evade love, an old solution


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