Under the Roof Trusses
My narrative unfolds in real time
through breath alone,
before language,
before letters
A door stands open
a sandal’s width
for the Silver Cat
to enter the night
and leave it
Somewhere I hear myself breathing
on autopilot
while the room supplies
space
and floating horizontals
I pass through the feral hall of mirrors
of the personality,
through dream’s brutal unveilings,
through the tomography of the ages
Layer after layer –
slate, rare earth metals,
cultures sedimented
into the humus murmur of languages
in the brown-rumbling sarabandes
of the tunnels
Life Bach-primatized
into prayers and curses,
long deaths
and the stout sexual belonging
of short lives
All the wisdom doctrines of the worlds
hang under the roof trusses
without demand
without goal
Like the shirts and suits
of a dead police superintendent
while rain strikes the window
and someone lets something slip
At any moment
the roof may open
and the house draw breath
into infinity
I remember Aspenström
lifting the roof from the hospital
and turning the sickroom
into an observatory –
Eternity unchanged,
indeterminate,
neither one thing nor the other
His granddaughter passed my booth
at Skavsta
and spoke of him
I saw her pride
My thought drifts naked
beyond control
reading unwieldy worlds
outside the jurisdictions of the senses—
dangerously free
in Icarus-space
The house endures.
It tightens rafters and shingles,
opens the window and yawns,
falls asleep and dreams
of a new roof,
soft paw pads,
the wild-wife’s bedroom in twilight,
mine in the midst of dawn –
life’s span colossal
while wars below the horizons
live on heavy breathing
and the rosary of heartbeats
in hastily summoned liturgies of battle
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-05 at 15:08
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