Sparse Solitudes
The house hums like a jetliner
creeping across continents & oceans
It rushes through time
with its ageing;
crosses the plainlands of Kronos
with its freezers mumbling sarabandically
The house’s triple-glazed eyes keep watch
beneath the roof’s cap
in all directions of the dark,
while the zodiac pins the night sky in place
and somewhere in someone’s sometime
distances twist alone
in classical literature
and burlap sacks of snakes
The houses’ up-masoned congresses
are called cities,
which on the maps record themselves
– tall-risen, wide-brimmed –
like notable days in calendars;
the circuits of streets flowing with contingencies
as ages erode,
but around the present globe of velvet & steel
people flicker into being
like the earth-surface counterparts
of the stellar pinpricks of the deep sky,
each of immeasurable significance to someone,
and the houses stand mute
in their silhouettes on the hills,
their freezers humming like bumblebee brahmins
in electric dizziness at the ends of the cabling;
the moon a hovering silence
above three horses in a pasture
and a bedroom turned away
When the wars end
the hangars echo empty,
and the forests whisper of great distances
and sparse solitudes
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-10 at 10:22
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
