In All Directions (VI)
The house courses through time
like a Boeing 747 through the air-sea
At four
I come hard awake
with pain in the eye.
Sleep will not have me again
The sky clamours with worry,
forebodings beating their ragged wings
The body – an unsecured lodging,
a doubtful process
that cannot lower its landing gear
Fuel growing critical.
The Mentour Pilot would read the gauges
But the aerodrome is dark.
The Milky Way drawn shut
The present stands without warranty.
Fear overfires
Death is already laid in
to gravity itself,
with its genial face
and those plump cheeks
tugging
The cats pass black through the dark,
low-scenting stealth things
patrolling the floors
Morpheus holds the Wildwife
– night’s stranger in her boarded sleep –
behind shut doors,
kept by unwritten law
and by sense
She sleeps,
well-founded in custom and usage,
in the sanctified order of sleep
But this wolf-hour
is a bunk
in concentration-mode
The self hunts
in all directions,
its escape attempts
finely ground
and vain
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-08 at 10:18
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