The Late-Winter Violin
I take hold
of the dazzling white expanses,
like the birthday child
the oversized slice of cake;
the cream and the cherry;
pole through the squint
of the blinding glare
with burning cheekbones
in the cold of the shadow side;
work the shoulders
and the long composite feet from Fischer;
hear Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel
waxing between the inner ears
as the track carries
in across Skärhalsen’s ground level
in the body’s enduring gear ratio
around Sågdjupträsket Lake
in early March fresh air;
the Sun’s eye a burning glass
in the middle of the face,
perception aching
through the lament of the cold flame;
the body slightly lagging
as monotony tones
on the late-winter violin
down the fall of the shadow
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-02 at 18:18
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