Turning Over
Blinded,
I sit, nailed rigid,
inside a flight-seat illusion
out here upon the terrace's level decking,
held in the hard embrace
of a wooden chair,
cloudlessly open,
defencelessly tipped,
turning over with the whole Earth,
turned inside out
in the circadian vertigo,
according to physics'
immutable laws
& the prevailing cosmic order,
in one single grip
around neck, back & seat,
down into the Sun's merciless eye,
engraving its photonary paralysis
into the smoking latticework
of the retina
through the Sun's perpetual
eight-minute-old fire;
the star's welding flame,
ripping razor-scalped shadowplays
from the wavering passage
of the poet's pen
across the page,
along the obedient ruling
of the notebook,
from left into right,
by direct descent,
just as the Earth
keels over,
heavy
in the gyroscopic suspension
of empty space,
as the people of Dorisburg
were seen traversing,
in goldonders of the Aniara class –
and the Sun semaphores
its stern prominences,
silent above
the bleak valleys
of my face,
pressed against Time,
turning over
through days
and years.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-07-21 at 12:34
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