A couple of years ago,

in a direct identification with history,

treasure hunts & all that's hidden and secretive

in the vast, wide never

that envelopes us,

I tossed a handful of coins

under a couple of large ice age boulders

in the depth of the forest;

minted monetary values

through many hands' transactions, agreements,

instalments, final bids & candy counters,

in the mystique & symbolism of Fairytales;

the wide-eyed mossy lushness

in memories of emerging cities that shimmer

in bright, sparkling strings of pearls

and glowworm spreads

under the International Space Station's Cupola,

heavy with leachates and fox gazes

in the ancient pulse and dense solitude

of the forest heart under the Moon;

the clipping eyes of owl vigils

in that which happens without us,

from my sower hand

that lets coins fly like birds

out of my sight

Now Anna breathes her sleep

beside me

on the voyage of the Great Ship of Dreams,

her wild untamedness in round table talks

with her steady orderliness

in the cabin of the night,

the table creaking

in the sea swell of fresh wills under the Zodiac

And in 1959

my slightly younger farm friend Kent Wretling

and I

dug down a time capsule at the forest's edge

where once the old farm community of Jogersta By stood,

but where, in 1959, only remained an opening

with a piece of sloping, fertile meadowland,

almost overgrown,

up toward the owl hooting and night jarring darkness

of the Kolmården Forest above Kiladalen Valley

with its wavering silver line of Kilaån River

zigzagging down towards the Nyköping Town

Baltic Sea inlet;

glass jar in glass jar

with selected current events;

a daily newspaper, written messages

and various objects,

buried deep in the ground and left

- or was it actually us who were left,

behind in the passage of time?

That day from the autumn of 1959 lives

in the earth,

leaving us to our fates

in time's relentless flight

inside the ongoing and ever-fleeing,

in the hocks of a remorseful and fearful god

who timelessly flees over the moors

with humanity's accumulated gene pool

in a thimble,

away from that day

that doesn't even have a name,

but lives in its unnameable namelessness,

which has our breaths

even when we no longer breathe;

when my heart stops quoting itself,

over and over again