In All Directions (III)
The house flies through time
like a jet through air
4 a.m.
Pain in the eye.
Sleep gone
The sky shrieks with worry.
Forebodings beat their wings
The body –
an unsecured airfield
Landing gear refuses.
Fuel dwindles
The aerodrome dark.
The Milky Way drawn shut
Fear over-revving.
Death already built
into gravity
with its cheerful cheeks
pulling
Cats glide black
through the dark
low-scenting
stealth patrols
Morpheus keeps the Wildwife
behind sealed doors,
safe inside
the old laws of sleep
But this wolf hour
is a bunk
in concentration-mode
The self hunts
in all directions –
its escape attempts
ground
to powder
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-07 at 21:55
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