Eighth of October in Backlight
I'm not dead,
but tired,
desalted,
slowly undergoing
transformation –
my body creaking;
hard to make food taste of anything –
but Silver the Cat comes
and lies down beside me
on the throw;
licks himself immaculate,
sighs,
curls up and falls asleep
Down in the farmyard
the sun wallows at an October slant
in unprotected eyes
Great pines lie cut up in backlight;
manageable rounds
to be split into fuel for the wood boiler
and firewood for the hearth:
stored solar power, easily released:
winter's salvation
when Anne Carson's prize is announced
This moment is wholly present
in its dry humor
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 12 times
Written on 2026-10-08 at 15:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
