Archives for posts with tag: fleeting pixel no. 947

He put her back in her body, and then he noticed the arrested brilliance of the blackbird’s eye | He noticed the birch trees retreating in order, gathering their woods: the calm verticals of the white trunks, eventually you would get | to Scandinavia | The pots on the stove | bristled with the heat | the sauces thickened, he began | to take her out of her body again | This would not lead to happiness, he knew | far from it | he didn’t care | knowledge had no meaning for him | let the little white triangles in the bay | belong to the tales of the yachts, the swell, the currents | he wasn’t a yachtsman | and anyway | perhaps some good would come of it? | The stocks and shares trembled in their graphs | everywhere people were pursuing money, let them | let them get rich while he turned her head | this way and that | let the athletes compete | and the terrorists sweat in their cars and vans in the traffic | there would be talk of tides and winds | and the lies would grow around his thighs, and further | up to his waist | like long grass, she would | stay out of her body for a while now | steam would be extruded | in fine, mushrooming fumes | from under the clinking and puttering | lids of saucepans | and all around the city | thermometers would continue to respond | to the sun’s forces | and it was okay | there would be life | people would draw their useless conclusions | and the conclusions would pile up like the pebbles on a wide, cold beach | he would put her tongue | last of all | back in her body | after the fingers | and the mute | mounds of the knees | and the sighs | everything would fit | nothing would be left out | she would return | it was good | though no good | could come of it | Into the distance, the silver birches | lined and retreated | and the radio | began speaking of the storms and the coast and the sea again | then he knew where he was going | where he would take his sorrow | north | higher, and higher, to reach | Scandinavia, eventually••


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

He put her back in her body, and then he noticed the arrested brilliance of the blackbird’s eye | He noticed the birch trees retreating in order, gathering their woods: the calm verticals of the white trunks, eventually you would get | to Scandinavia | The pots on the stove | bristled with the heat | the sauces thickened, he began | to take her out of her body again | This would not lead to happiness, he knew | far from it | he didn’t care | knowledge had no meaning for him | let the little white triangles in the bay | belong to the tales of the yachts, the swell, the currents | he wasn’t a yachtsman | and anyway | perhaps some good would come of it? | The stocks and shares trembled in their graphs | everywhere people were pursuing money, let them | let them get rich while he turned her head | this way and that | let the athletes compete | and the terrorists sweat in their cars and vans in the traffic | there would be talk of tides and winds | and the lies would grow around his thighs, and further | up to his waist | like long grass, she would | stay out of her body for a while now | steam would be extruded | in fine, mushrooming fumes | from under the clinking and puttering | lids of saucepans | and all around the city | thermometers would continue to respond | to the sun’s forces | and it was okay | there would be life | people would draw their useless conclusions | and the conclusions would pile up like the pebbles on a wide, cold beach | he would put her tongue | last of all | back in her body | after the fingers | and the mute | mounds of the knees | and the sighs | everything would fit | nothing would be left out | she would return | it was good | though no good | could come of it | Into the distance, the silver birches | lined and retreated | and the radio | began speaking of the storms and the coast and the sea again | then he knew where he was going | where he would take his sorrow | north | higher, and higher, to reach | Scandinavia, eventually

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