Sparse Solitudes (II)
The house hums like a jetliner
creeping over continents and oceans
Through time it rushes
with its ageing,
crossing the plains of Kronos
while freezers mumble
in sarabande
Triple-glazed eyes of the house
keep watch
beneath the roof’s cap
into every direction of darkness,
while the zodiac
pins the night
Somewhere in someone’s sometime
distances twist alone
in classical books
and burlap sacks of snakes
The masoned congress of houses
is called a city –
on maps they rise, wide-brimmed,
like anniversaries in calendars;
streets circulate with chance
as ages erode
Around this present globe
of velvet and steel
people flare briefly –
earth’s counterparts
to the stellar pinpricks
of the deep sky,
each of immeasurable meaning
to someone
And houses stand mute
on their hills,
freezers humming
like bumblebee brahmins
dizzied in electric cables
The moon –
a hovering silence
above three horses in a pasture
and a turned-away bedroom
When wars end
hangars echo empty,
and forests whisper
of vast distances
and sparse solitudes
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-10 at 11:00
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