Upon the Passing of Tomas Tranströmer

By | 1 February 2020

The world has come up to my window
to tell me it’s not too late
to tell me yes yes you too are still alive

The gods and demons of the Śatapathabrāhmaṇa
have left their eye lids
along with their creation, destruction saliva
in recesses of the purple wood
where my monkey-self swings
watching shadow bubbles column
like oil from disappeared planes

How often I have felt like a gaudy insect
in those gloomy, effulgent kitchens where
gods and demons and poems
loom above my lamb steak
and the profundity is knowing
that they too will overlook the fur
that trellises me but I can’t see

My head anti-missile chaffs and flares
and it feels like the tails of the comets are conspiring
against me in my latest dark irrationality
Or is it my super awareness? It is it is in this fringe of the park
which is a page the drug lords also read

I will refuse to be a wolf beyond my white banishment
I will walk through the banistered puddles
of stated houses in the sense of an incorporeal cube
not slowing down

The sleeper trains are mating
The slender comets have treacled from their sky warrens
to be folded arm-over-arm
and fused as sun is into grass

Today it feels like sundown
The islands look violated and majestic
All the fire and all the black

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