The Garden Cupola
The gazebo is a cupola
dangling toward the sky
The thunder has passed below,
in noisy swaths,
parading
like obese generals on Red Square
with round cheeks
and enormous peaked caps
The pond in the middle of the garden
has gathered all the vegetal peace there is,
around its inward-looking eye,
which can recall the past
long since uncalled for
Something clicks into place
in this overgrown perfection
Something else nosedives
through the hanging sky,
after Mirķ fliers flying upside down
Something drifts like floaters across the eye,
bare-bashed over the trusswork,
jerking like cobalt-blue dragonflies
over Nat Creek
They are the barn swallows
hatched in the run-in shed,
and beneath the extension of the roof ridge
outside Anna's bedroom,
now flying upside down
through the Muammar Gaddafi tent of space
The cloudbursts surge upward
around the hanging garden cupola,
from the cloud-bottom beneath us,
in one thunderous accord
The cranes call from Västiträsket,
out of their clamorous tin kettles,
as the light between the cloud pillars
opens hanging seas for mismatched vessels,
adrift in an eternity without horizons;
their masts scraping across the thought of the cosmos,
deep below the cupola's slow drift
over the crystal-clear subject of nothingness,
which sings steelworks and motorways
and roman ā clef novels from Shitville
The bodies resort to emergency measures
in their hanging gardens
as time crumbles
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 9 times
Written on 2026-08-03 at 20:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
