The buildings do not need us, we wish them | back into position — his jaw so strong, isn’t it to do | with calcium and oestrogen? | Inflate the house from a scent of blueprints | they call them “factors” | he leans against a column, lights a cigarette, contrary | to the forceful advice | of the Surgeon General | thinks he is in the realm | of mid-70s Bowie | around Young Americans, he | is deluded but it carries him | among the hydrangeas and the early evening moths | September could also be beautiful, still | is that a myth? | Uncaring will take you | a long way | just as caring may | perhaps further? | He is young | juvenile in the sense | not merely that he is not old | but buoyed upon his hope and on what | he calls despair | he’s ready for knowing, he is that | innocent | Across the grid, the buildings bloom like flowers | rising into their quiet, impersonal space | and the maps flow and recede, flow and recede | The tourists ebb | down the gravel drives, past statues | and when Ulysses was 18, he sailed in ships | not only later | we tend | to forget that | For a while, the journey has no destination | at all | I wonder, assuming my burden as usual, why should I care? | Then the sea begins to assert | no land | and remembers | calling it Ithaca


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