Like Shed Snakeskins
The day lies like an abandoned tract,
a deserted industrial lot
or a death camp
in the forgetting of a dead person
I carry myself
like something imposed, commanded, flogged,
from a from to a to
The formulations slither like shed snakeskins
in the wind;
I am not even horny in the poem,
starved interjections not even hungry;
only a sharp shadow across old yellow snow,
a collapsed ribcage in drafty sentence structures;
I do not even long to murder a neighbor
in the documentaries’ –25° C,
in minutes and hours best described by Imre Kertész
without the slightest notion of anything at all,
the speculations cracked in line notes,
all assumptions buried in diaries.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-11-20 at 11:25
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