I feel the wars fading

in back of my life

I sense them falling off

in the snow flurries

like old flakes of skin;

artillery, trenches, tanks

I meet my sister in a dream;

we are reconciled;

she's 84,

and maybe the dream readies me

for her imminent death

The night before

I met my late American wife Judith

in another very strong dream:

I took a bus to where she was,

but she was angry at seeing me,

telling me not to look for her

Maybe these dreams instead announce my own demise,

slipping recklessly and hopelessly

across the line

in a strange tense,

a strange light

I'm jotting this

while hearing an interview with Martha Gessen

on Swedish Radio, forgive me,

so whoever dies,

lets call for the death of the dictator

while the wars are fading

at the back of our minds,

just like songbirds dispersing

in all directions,

and observe;

Putin is nothing but a really bad habit,

which we all can cut

My hands are full of deeds

and my wrist displays a gold watch

from the Police;

long and faithful service

I'm reappearing in myself

with the regularity and stubbornness

of a bureaucrat and a fool

The war is raining,

the war is snowing,

the war is shining from a clear sky

The mood swings from birth to death

Humanity's eight billion voices

all have something to say,

but I cut them up electronically,

stir them

and enjoy the ring of the mixed choir

Those who don't yet exist, by a long shot,

converse cheerfully and carelessly

in the preparations for the ensuing,

while the blood dwindles

in my own recollections,

the sudden bull bawling of the snow scooters

in the chill startling

I go pick up a book by Birgitta Trotzig,

read, lie, let lay