Out Of My Days


Is it not a consolation
that what we fear does not exist,
and is inevitable!

Death is surprising
like a gigantic soap bubble,
helpless in its surface-tension wavering
over the backyard,
toward the lilac arbor’s prickling death-notice,
as time’s emissary
captures the old houses of the yard
in the soap bubble’s quivering death-dance
with his East German Praktica;
houses & verandas bent & warped
in the bubble sphere’s oily fisheye skin,
as in dream or tale
or an Americana painting
by Shabtai Zisel ben Avraham;
the peace symbol above the front steps
a talisman for guiltless perpetrators;
a mute incantation
cast over all contemporaneties

Innocence strikes hard the stubborn sinner
on the road between the testaments,
in the echo of Om Kalsoum’s Amal Hayati,
holiness coughing in its squint-eyed imperfection
over log & stone

I step out of my days
with ink-stained fingers & a pencil gaze;
the events crackling on shortwave
as the Silver Cat and I fade
into the same sleep

Peace is a creeping current beneath the soles, ecstatic

Angels breathe in kitchen cupboards
and winter storage




Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-03-29 at 10:23

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