The Montana Moon
Don't be scared
because you'll never again
meet someone
Your life opens like a spoon
toward the front door
That is your wealth
Your assignment is hollow
and opposite
The ring still soughs:
When I turn everything off
I hear a murmur
It's all the misunderstandings
that are jotted
in a careless and hasty hand
and have nowhere
except elsewhere,
in bodily feigns
The day calls for twelve hollow brutes
and twelve forgiven
Even the distant mountains
don't get rid of long distances;
they gather at high altitude balls,
dressed in blue;
the mists at their feet serving them well
All thoughts are intoxicated
in the meadows,
bluebells tingling,
lasting impressions auctioned off
for almost nothing
in rural towns
The Montana moon rises
in an American haiku;
the silent observer
of things to note
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2022-12-15 at 08:41
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Ingvar Loco Nordin |
Griffonner |