The Brushwood's Twenty Seconds
Here rests the experience of existence on its back in silence
deep into the middle of November;
a flesh-body in a silent world
through which the Haparanda train sweeps
down there in the brushwood curtain,
a few hundred meters from here;
a metallic bourdon for twenty seconds of time
& minus twenty degrees of temperature;
my flesh-body a circadian vessel
of age & dreams;
an old ugly-rigger, up in a midnight house
in the North;
a breathing on its own accord on the second floor,
far beyond intention & persona,
in a black night in a white cover,
in a silence of sparse farmsteads’ extinguished faces
that pry open thoughts & memories,
and weigh the body’s pleasant heaviness,
while the empty train gives off light, rattles past,
lifts the field of vision along its direction of travel
in the perception’s shadow of a movement
in the brushwood curtain’s twenty seconds of minus twenty degrees,
a few hundred meters below an empty thought
in a being in a solitary house, silent & aware;
an organic ornament
on its back in the untimely aspect
of timelessness;
the silence sufficient, the body exact,
while the presencing here,
in an indistinct somewhere, diffuses and slips
into a distant there; assumed, absent —
and the papers fill with signs
and all that overgrowth we left
to itself
as our appearances soften
and all choice drains itself dry
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-11-17 at 09:58
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