Remaining through morn
in the bedroom sleeping bag
at the farm outside Niemisel,
apprehending something big
when winter stands as fallen from the skies
(before the badly insulated Per Albin house
from the1930s
has been warmed up
through collected efforts with firewood
out in the boiler room
right across the courtyard)
is presumptuos

The Big Thing hangs in the balance
as it is
The small thing isn't particularly small either...

The entire Universe is layered in the different keys
of incredible departures
and far too many arrivals to keep track of

For each heartbeat in every cardiovascular system
the Universe stands blushing
in billions upon billions of galaxies

Each opportunity stands aggravated
on the MIG/MAG-welded surface tension of each instant

The Dead are point blank goners,
and all stray ideas would gather
in one single disappearance
if the costs went down
enough
for us to afford engaging the geothermal heating

But each existence is a gyroscope
on which everything depends,
from thought to action
and along everything in between

The Sky arches;
the Body – duly assembled and mechanically elegant -
strolls off, in act & purpose,
in step with daily & hourly

In the aftermath of everything
follows its consequence

Refluxes torment the overall experience,
but once a year, Dr. Stina Schell restarts
the blessed prescription

Around us, the constellations are always at hand
in Stockhausen's TIERKREIS
and life undermines itself

My Self is a peephole
The Universal Alter Ego is on its knees, gazing

Come to think of it;
if I remain up in the bedroom
yet an hour,
Anna will have stepped out
into the mad cold
to hammer the wood burner
unto its maximum:
https://soundcloud.com/user-782001904-315487351/sonnenklang