Per Septenos (III)
My weekly dosimeter,
a small transparent vessel,
teaches me how time moves
Each Sunday
it opens its lid
and weeks step forward
in heavy strides,
flickering
out of futurum into imperfectum
faster than the dangerous shimmer
of low autumn light
through the pine forest’s columned hall
What was a blank tabula rasa
thickens into a seven-day palimpsest:
residue, passage,
a palimpsestum of memory –
dream-shards,
mythic murmurs
drawn from the cosmic wells
of the unconscious,
as if I had slept
from Sunday to Sunday
This is the craft
that carries me
from midsummer to Christmas,
from New Year to the haymaking
Time breathes
in my fingertips
when I distribute the small prescribed ones,
sevenfold, evenly,
entering a pharmacological seventh-day trance
while the calendar watches
Yes –
time arrives per septenos,
transparent,
in the harmonica-wide silence
of the dosimeter.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-12-27 at 13:28
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
