The fallen are everywhere with us | in the vanished snow, in the | steady wave of light from the monitor | in the reflection in a bus window | they form | an environment | a phosphor of ambience | a moment’s pause | after the tale of daring-do | and you drop back into the instant | oddly dissatisfied | abruptly wishing you had a different life | that the colour green | was dead | Threads | fray | The molluscan sentence leaves | its trail of chromium slime | the diary | has its story of the hours | very close to silence, the last echo in the line | sadly beckons you | Gaining momentum, but losing direction | you mean your way into a suspended | fate again: are you happy? | Strange | angles | Nothing to think anymore | The mainline station | buzzes with options and other people’s | perfection | what do the ghosts | do with all their time? | What do the mermaids | make of the rain?

Raining again and the sea | is gelid and heaves its molten flint | mules not with gold but simple weight of wasted rock | why did they leave the gold behind? || You worry that you are merely | the echo of another voice | or perhaps the echo of your own voice calling | from long ago, when you were young | In widescreen, the angels with their guns | emerge from the dust and sage | and you hang from the slender | thread of sentience | the light of all the eyes that will never look at you, and | the darkness of all the eyes that turned away

