At night I grab three pillows,

the exercise notebook, a poetry notebook,

a pen, some books,

a small analogue radio,

all my years and my face,

and walk across the upper hall,

from our bedroom

and The Great Ship of Dreams,

to a room on the opposite - east - side

of the house,

where I place these items and myself

for the night

Anna needs her sleep,

which I disturb a couple of times each night,

having to go up to urinate,

getting nervous when I do get up,

to wake Anna; nervous and tense,

which, in turn, makes my falling back into sleep

harder,

so these moves twice a day, eve & morn,

make good sense

Each morning I step back across the hall,

to the bedroom out west and the Ship of Dreams,

with three pillows,

the exercise notebook, a poetry notebook,

a pen, some books,

a small analogue radio,

all my years and my face,

to spend a few morning hours reading & writing

and not least thinking,

when my cognition is at its clearest & brightest

We are old folks now, making sense,

Cerberus howling in the distance,

while I fling open Gary Snyder's No Nature,

sensing our kinship, weeping a little,

inhaling & exhaling automatically

without thinking of it,

clicking in to my space-time slot,

remembering last night's Skype conversation

with my son,

vividly describing his hard ride to see my brother

on his 90th birthday,

the calmly bouncing heart within my ribcage

distantly related

to silversmith Anna-Stina Åberg's hammer

Nothingness slips by inconspicuously

as I put down the pen

and raise my gaze

Silence is mighty just below the surface