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I'm making peace
with the dwindling

There is an understanding
between the will to
and the will not to,
in the room that opens into,
closes out of

but I can't make sense
of the gross weight
of all the marks of moments
that sit, many-faced
like eastern godesses
on phonograms, in books
all around me and my urge for going,
up and down my sky and soil,
littering my silence
like the empty beer cans
of a death wish
behind a car
carrying the ”just married” sign

Insects are stinging my naked body
when I'm changing into bike clothes
under the Hat Mountain;
the laughing woman beating me
with a birch twig
to fend the swarm of horseflies off,
in all unlikeliness


© Ingvar Loco Nordin 2023