Hold on longer if you can | I’m going to slip away | We have said our piece | what’s left but to turn our backs | or say our piece again? | Smoke is coming from the horses’ eyes | You listen to the captains, shouting

Some of them tried to stay, and build something | It wasn’t there when they got back | and it wasn’t what they wanted, anyway | They needed a story to put their story into place | the gilt buttons on the cuffs | and the braid | but I don’t need their story | or yours | tell it if you want, though | maybe someone will listen? | and it will come in useful, someday? | Keep talking | Don’t I please you anymore? | You know, I think I’ve just lost the knack | of caring | it will probably come back | Caresses like mist on the lake | pass over our bodies | we can’t spend the day | chasing the wake | it leaves no memoir | the children | wave from the boat | but they’re someone else’s children | They want to get it right | or at least, pull it apart | so it doesn’t work anymore | as long as they know it’s finished | that’s the main thing | then they can move on | You know who they are | because you’re one of them | As one captain dies, another starts up | and the orders begin | That’s the problem with the past | It’s never going to happen


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