In All Directions
The house rushes through time
like a Boeing 747 through the sea of air
as I snap awake at 4 a.m. with pain in my eye
and do not fall asleep again,
with the sky full of screeching worry
and flapping forebodings;
the body an unsecured place of stay,
an ominous barely-holding-together process
unable to lower the landing gear,
while the fuel situation grows ever more critical
à la Petter Hörnfeldt, the Mentour Pilot;
the aerodrome blacked out, the Milky Way drawn shut,
the present moment without guarantees, the fear over-revved
& death irresistibly built in
to gravity itself
with its jovial expression & its chubby cheeks,
insistent & tugging
The cats move black in the darkness,
patrolling like low-sniffing stealth prowlers
across the floor surfaces
Morpheus possesses the Wildwife
– the stranger of the night in her boarded-up self-sleep –
behind closed doors, protected by unwritten laws
and by both reason and sanity;
snoozing well anchored in custom & practice
& the sanctified rank of sleep;
this wolf hour a bunk
in the concentration-mode;
the self a hunter
in all directions
in finely fragmented futile escape attempts
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-07 at 18:55
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