I can live here, there is sufficient space | under the floorboards | The hole | in the briars is large enough | to squeeze through | at night there will be slugs, rabbits | the trains will stop running, the rails cool and the lines go quiet | I can watch the dew form | reflect on the moon’s part in its sway of tides | I’m sure I can sleep | The old pan | I could fit in that | too | draw the lid above our heads, you will | stay with me | they won’t light the stove tonight | their attention is elsewhere | waiting the election of a president | their faces will be lit by screens | and the fluctuating light of screens will wash over them for hours | we can be hushed | crouched down | they won’t notice | I have little doubt | and if they look away | from the screens | and out of the windows | or through the door | to the porch | there will be moths | a song of crickets | and beyond that | the mass of green stippled | with the cones of pines, receding towards blur | the quick life, the old nests | and they may see their reflections in the glass, and wonder | but beyond their thoughts of the forest | there is the forest

 


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

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