I'm old enough
to become overwhelmed
by the smallest occurrence,
the tiniest change of perspective,
the least of the least

I see the light
just as it explodes

Some things become obvious
just as they cease

I fasten my skis,
put on my face
and head into the wind

Nobody is there,
except everybody;
the sharp acupuncture nails
of the corn snow,
the windy voices of the gale
out of the semi-darkness
and the voices in my head
of cosmic creatures that brought me here
through the hidden silence
in the noise of the extended here and now:
Mother Viola, friends like Sune, Sture, Kjellström,
foes, poets, painters, writers, musicians,
passers-by

I'm a flickering flare
in this faceless, head-on reckoning
of days,
on skis,
dressed in my windproof face
and the howling strength
of a general disobedience,
on the edge of myself;
everything an out-of-tune madrigal,
persistent in the storm,
while emotions flow
across the field of vision