As means are reduced,
the letters of the alphabet
are still at my disposal

As sculptures are sleeping
inside crude rock,
poems hide
inside the alphabet,
as well as Swedish landscape laws
and the memoirs of Winston Churchill,
the way unseen worlds do rest
inside this world's potential,
in hypothetical realms

Feeding the horses this – 15° C morning
in the snow
reaching up my thighs,
the air blistering
with late January sunshine,
I assume an ancient guise,
whom I might encounter
somewhere
in The Icelandic Tales

Reduction of means
sharpens my gaze,
makes my judgment unforgiving,
steel-eyed, inexorable, relentless
and my many unread books
well read,
as I watch this
slowly become that,
without any resistance of mine

What is
and what won't be
is fine

(I'm no concern of mine!)