On a concrete wall, just out of reach, the softening | is coming | She has left | her phone in Eden | he thinks he | can hear it ringing | None of the cars | are going anywhere | when the moon blossoms | they will not wait | how could they? | What could be easier | than falling? | She closes | he closes | they delicate | the space between them | with the contours | of their skin | Knowing | their way back | is not knowing | and is not going | they try to remember | if it is summer? | Just before, she wonders | will she ever | be this young again?
The cars begin to go | Abruptly, the world is full of destinations | Softly, the moon | puts out its antlers | a cigarette carton | is a light, golden tomb | (scrapes underfoot) | They sit and don’t know, much, of anything | the city glides in hourglass slump | towards a centre | that is falling | They feel the deer running | spooked | by a scent | Virginity | instils them | with the shimmering | of their limits, they cannot | be taken | until | they take | At the other | end of summer | the beginning | wakes them•
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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2016)
hypergram 