Crosscurrent
The strings’ opening bars
in Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto
speak the distrust & despair
of the one who has not,
or believes they do not have,
anything more to hope for in this life,
and tumbles in the hospital stairwell
or the railway station,
or out of their house in the countryside,
out into the air, to struggle with the breath
past the treetop-low
of gray rain clouds,
or to end out in marsh and mire
and summer-cold
Nothing is a great thing
The wind rises from a singing bowl,
a dog’s bark lingers on the triple glass
Nothing is overwhelming,
a timeless acquiescence
Thirst pecks on the shortwave,
history marches on the walls of Persepolis
A blind flash blackens
without body
in a barefoot photograph’s predicative darkroom
I wrap a weather front
around myself,
with my hands moving through the dark
My persona is a crosscurrent up Golgate,
which is a forest road
that winds away
into a night
that shuts its eyes to the truth
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-24 at 18:43
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