In All Directions (V)
The house is rushing through time
like a Boeing 747 through the sea of air
At four in the morning
I wake with pain in my eye
and that is the end of sleep
The sky is full of screaming worry.
Forebodings flap around in the dark
The body has become
an unsecured stopover
Somewhere the landing gear refuses.
Fuel is running low
Petter Hörnfeldt, the Mentour Pilot,
would know what to do.
But the aerodrome is dark.
Even the Milky Way has been pulled shut.
The present moment offers no guarantees.
Fear is over-revving.
Death has always been there of course,
built right into gravity
with its cheerful face
and those chubby cheeks
pulling at us.
Meanwhile the cats move through the dark
like stealth patrols
sniffing low over the floors
Morpheus has the Wildwife tonight.
She sleeps behind closed doors,
protected by ancient customs
and the old authority of sleep
But this wolf hour
is a bunk
in concentration-mode
The self is hunting
in all directions,
making small
carefully fragmented
attempts to escape
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-08 at 09:53
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