We want to run, for fear of perfection | He doesn’t know the state of the stones | she will tell him | agate, basalt, carnelian | Do shadows possess weight? | she wonders | as she bleeds slowly | Some infinitesimal substance? | They know and their certainty | places the dragonflies over the path | a Banded Demoiselle, a Vagrant Emperor | an Azure Hawker | They are a shadow colour | she thinks | turning her head as the sun | threatens to blind her | all a shadow colour | Do the stones talk? | He isn’t sure | Do the stones | live in their names? | When you look away, do they move | open | their small, stone mouths, mew? | She cannot stop bleeding | for now | When you look back, do they freeze again? | What shyness | fills them? | Why won’t they come | true for us? | They are true, she says | Look: agate, basalt, carnelian

She doesn’t know what to feel | Will this be sorrow? | she wonders | His mouth is very small | his lips | unused to the stature of love | are particularly pink | They embrace | How great is this kiss? | Will she hurt me? | Is she hurting me now? | Across a pebble beach | they crunch and slither | soon, they’ll reach the sand, among the dunes | things will be easier | Her mouth grows smaller and smaller | to fit | On her side, curled up, head propped in her hand | she’s reading | a short novel by Uhlman | Her skin is light, floating, she can’t hold it down | the words in the fragile book | won’t give back the weight | she’s losing | the dragonflies | hunt along the path | the temperature is so | poised | in a moment she’ll shiver | and oh, God, the coolness | of evening | the lamps | the keys | the phone | with its date | flicking over | He’s in the kitchen, perhaps, what, five metres away? — and she can’t tell | if that is far enough, or too far? (It feels too far) | She longs | to know what to feel | about this perfection | she feels | Outside, on the beach | the stones are on their way, migrating | they have abandoned their names | the younger stones | mew | and the dusk is full of their distress | no one can listen | they are too bound up | in casting their spell | We can call it bliss | she thinks | as his mouth | begins to grow | She hovers, equivocal | This is all bliss | As she is unsure, she wonders: Will this be sorrow? | And as she well knows | it already is


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