In All Directions (VII)
IN ALL DIRECTIONS (VII)
The house rushes through time
like a Boeing 747 through the sea of air
as I wake wide awake at four a.m. with pain in my eye
and do not fall asleep again,
the sky full of screeching worry
and flapping forebodings;
the body an unsecured place of stay,
an ominous barely-holding process
unable to lower the landing gear,
while the fuel situation grows critical
Mentour Pilot would read the gauges
But the aerodrome is dark,
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,
insistent & tugging
The cats move black through the darkness,
patrolling like low-sniffing stealth prowlers
across the floors
Morpheus holds 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
But this wolf hour
is a bunk
in concentration-mode;
the self hunting
in all directions
in finely fragmented attempts to escape
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-08 at 11:30
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