He came into my life, I don’t know | if he ever left it again | The light on the jetty, going on and off at night | and the lights and sirens of the ambulances | many years later | there is probably no thread | there is certainly another world, immeasurably greater | and you live there, perhaps? | The green of the bones | and the parachute heart of the plunge | into the rock pool | does he ever remember those days? | — which means, I suppose, rebuild them? | You can only have | a slight part in this, it’s just that part | is everything | For the rest of us, there is only love | or whatever we hope | might justify our days | And perhaps not love

There was a succession of very hot, very still days, the kind of stillness that often | precedes a storm, but for us | no storm ever broke | and the stillness became an element | part of the furniture of our expectations, a right | We used to go to the swim-hole | they used to quarry stone there | were the reserves exhausted? | So many bones, they’re not important bones to everyone | or if they are | only obscurely | like water slowly filling a system | of underground caves | We are beyond strangers: do you own mirrors, do you often look at yourself? | Perhaps you’re blind, and only know mirrors by touch | the smoothness and coolness of the glass against the tips of your fingers | he won’t care | there isn’t a connection | a way through for him: he | had mirrors, he liked them, or at least | wasn’t afraid of them | Good for him | You have a theory, I imagine, to take these things away? | Floating | existing in the brilliant | crack of the thrill | flirting with the moment | the ‘chute doesn’t open | the water shot up like a vaporous | exclamation | and broke the summer | over and over again | Perhaps he leaves all the time? | And this | is his way of leaving? | At the corner of Full Moon St., in August | it will do for me | not perfect, but reasonably blessed | the best available, and the last | Everywhere, subtly, has its claim | to life’s priority | to being the only | place of its kind — like the Atacama for instance (the world’s driest)


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

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