In All Directions (II)
The house hurtles 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 sleep will not return,
the sky crammed with screeching worry
and fluttering forebodings;
the body an unsecured stopover,
an ominous barely-functioning process
that cannot get the landing gear down,
while the fuel situation grows critical
à la Petter Hörnfeldt, the Mentour Pilot,
the aerodrome darkened, the Milky Way drawn shut,
the present moment without guarantees, fear over-revving
& death irresistibly built in
to gravity itself
with its jovial face & chubby cheeks,
insisting & tugging
The cats move black through the darkness,
patrolling like low-sniffing stealth prowlers
across the floors
Morpheus has the Wildwife
– night’s stranger in her boarded-up self-sleep —
behind closed doors, protected by unwritten laws
and by both reason and sense;
sleeping soundly, well anchored in custom & practice
& the sanctified rank of sleep;
this wolf hour a bunk
in concentration-mode;
the self hunting
in all directions
in finely shredded attempts to flee.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-07 at 19:25
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