In the morning
the body is an open claim;
the face a faltering landing
in the middle of Kulturnytt
with scrape-wound verses, sprat-stanzas,
and swollen jagger-lips

The old drift in to buy
in leonard-cohen hats
or fifties overcoats;
making their way home
with bags hooked over their walkers

Spring moves on cold feet
across the cracked asphalt

Later the rental flat waits
with the door closed in on itself,
and the body settles
with see-through thoughts

The housing block is divided
into a multitude of cells

If they were transparent
we could study the life within
and write dissertations

The coffee water comes to the boil

One has shat & pissed,
washed one’s hands

Consolation is almost always meagre

The body is a troublesome project,
or just something to get through,
or… let happen

Bodies always cover themselves
before appearing in public

They are like pale silverfish
inside briefs & undershirts,
up here in the Swedish latitudes;
fucking Caucasians

Some are spindle-shaped,
others turn out column-lengths

I nod to an old columnist at the checkout;
decline an old lady
who offers her place

The moment disappears,
yet lingers
– simplified, coarsened –
in this heap of words,
thrown together as a distraction
in the pale light