The Record Keeps Spinning
I lie
in a pause
in the machinery of the everyday
on the yoga mat
a blanket of the dead
a small spiked planet under my skull
seventy-seven years in the body
Bob Dylan
turns the years
like weather
Voices rise from the grooves.
”...caught without a ticket...”
Judy appears again
in the American distances
Breezewood
Baltimore
Dallas basements
ten-dollar marriages
rifle distance from history
Seven years
like a small sacred number
Her arm around my chest
her nightgown against my back
sleep
without words
Across the Atlantic
the madman travels
between continents of mind
747s
and a loyalty that does not break
But time is merciless
with the fragile
Maryland soil
2009
No stone from me
The record turns
Dylan sings
rain around him
the old rain
that falls on all the years.
He too
hangs now
in the balance of time
Eighty-five in May
And here
on the yoga mat
I receive the dead
one by one
in the inexhaustible presence
of love
that wounds
and reveals the body
to time
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-06 at 18:01
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