The Offertory of the Sea-Drenched Swing
On February nights
I carry water toward the animals
and Venus has moved again –
higher in the vault,
behind the spruce that climbs toward heaven
She burns.
She freezes.
She keeps the sky from falling
Below, Anna labors in the straw
I am old
and not old –
a continuation of youth
that forgot to end
Once
we lined the bed against flood.
Desire broke over us
like weather.
Dictionaries fell from their shelves
when lejaculations detonated
inside the architecture of flesh
A great lexicon
lost its spine
in that season
I lay crosswise
in the hull of the Dreamship,
a beam in the trusswork of love,
while the sea-soaked swing
reached its final arc
Books took flight.
Titles scattered like birds
Now
hollow sounds travel the night.
Movements without matter.
Time without hearing
Health keeps its ledgers
in abandoned crown fields.
Sweaters unravel themselves in wind.
Plovers write
in the sand
At the waterline
Bach speaks in numbers.
Turing answers.
Crosses bloom in frightened crowds.
Inheritance drifts between hands.
Measures are bartered.
Arithmetic persists
Registers yellow.
Hospitals empty into air
And the carts of the landbound
jolt forward
in the ruts already made
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-26 at 11:32
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