Summer Graves
Far off
in a life,
the whooper swans call
in short echos,
as if wound in wet rags
or locked inside Elvis Presley's
Heartbreak Hotel echo chamber
in the 1950s
The house stands
on the outskirts of the whoopers,
stubbornly built
with floors, walls and roof,
like the murmur of an old ballad
over since long dead-and-forgottens' wanderings
in the wastelands
Dead tired, the memories wait
for their burials in the summer graves
Deep inside a linen cupboard
lie a couple of pieces of jewellery,
purchased with butter and tar,
as subdued and distant
as the whooper swans' three calls
out of a cubic geometry
way off at the Western Marsh
In a vain try at contemporaneity
in an old man
with my personal particulars,
three unrequited calls from morning whoopers in crystal
are heard
The senior's bed floats in the air
in the distance
The morning's breath through the forests
unchains all moments
One moment
carries the sifted swamp consolation
of whoopers
out of the melancholy of night
unto the bed that hovers
in a house
with the aged, loosely wound in sheets
The Day signs for 7th August,
unprotected in its precautions,
when the swans fall silent
through a rip in time,
and songbirds squander silence
The oldtimer lies stacked
in all his ages
The Western Marsh
takes part in a vast drainage,
and Time
in a great euthanasia,
while the Day wraps itself in its reasons
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2023-08-07 at 10:47
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