|The Indoors is Endless|
Inomhuset är oändligt
För levande och döda
New and Collected Poems
It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
Here is the north, here is Stockholm
The logs in the royal fireplace
Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
The cobblestones make them stagger
Implacably still, the sign-board
So many islands, so much rowing
The channels open up, April May
The heat reaches islands far out.
The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.
It happened like this, or almost.
about Erik, done down by a curse
He went to town, met an enemy
Keeps to his bed all that summer.
He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter
His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain
And the God of the depths cries out of the depths
All the surface action turns inwards.
The wind rises and the wild rose bushes
The future opens, he looks into
sees indistinct fluttering faces
By mistake his gaze strikes me
among grandiose houses where only
White buildings in crematorium style
The gentle downward slope gets steeper
Copyright © 1997 by Robin Fulton and © 1989 by the author.