There is a feverish activity

up on the roof,

sounding like giant insects of steel,

occupied and preoccupied

with some necessarey chore

- but it's sun rays, eight minutes late,

having the tin roof bend and flex,

while the doppler of a turbo prop

paints an Iliad bow on high,

golden in our instantaneous memories,

as the gray after-rollerski tinnitus fills all cracks

of the soundscape

with an odorless flow of existence, space per se

and dark matter

I stretch out on the late afternoon bedspread,

body burning from extended exercise,

place my hands behind my head

and let my elbows fall out, left and right,

in a tremendously restful position,

feeling like a kite

soaring on the Northbothnian sky,

all kinds of faces coming to mind,

my arms prickly with freckles

all the way out to my old man hands,

making faces