The asphalt and the verge, the white lines and the yellow lines | the red signs, the lights | the hum of the mountains, sleepy dynamo | the mountains | cracked like the watercoloured green-blue | eggs of robins | by a blackbird’s orange-black eye | hatched and cracked, then hatched again, but not often | for each thing a siren | then the torpor and the flies | in summer | the torpor and a crisp | absence of flies | in winter | apparent | clarification | extensive | dust | Add speed, briefly | Then back to the lay-by | the firecrackers of the static | voices thrown down | over | A furnace where the clouds are forged | body shop for the shining chrome | each fly should be accounted for | You are in love with your lieutenant | but the love is nine-tenths boredom, skin cast aside, the rockets and the gerberas | enslaved by phantom thoughts | the engine fallen quiet | a shape of grit, Ohio | a Siberia in oil | and the lay-by | waiting | Accelerate, briefly | and let in the dead light-hearted from their tomb, a holiday, then | brake | halt | all the dead fall inert | a small golden | fly’s corpse by your coffee | no record | Putting slowness into | the grandeur | but that slowness | was there anyway | it always will be | and slowly, slowly | the mountains are hatched | cracked open from a paper-skinned | egg of sky | and drawn | shimmering | towards the horizon: no, not this | horizon | but further from your route | further, beyond | your jurisdiction | you halt them, the mountains, briefly | set them to the asphalt and the weeds, the Coke cans | squashed and shot | but then slowly, slowly | they are drawn away again | as you are | into the lieutenant’s arms | and a profound and monumental inattention | secures the darkness | and the polluted sapphire | of a fly, too | and all the criminals | and the saints | with their absorbing sins | are drawn away, further and further, from each other | responding to the calls | all must hear | but the love is one-tenth living | but he casts your skin aside | for every thought of other days | and nights | and for each thing, a siren

 


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

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