My time
has no special purpose;
flows free in its furrow

My thoughts rise, smoky,
out of a vortex
in its surge

I listen to my body,
but it's not always soft-spoken;
it curses and screams
- so I hush it calm
with paracetamol and ibuprofen

My time has no time
for the stingy and fainthearted,
even if clothed in royal mantles
and Messianic thorns
in my aging diaries

No, my time has no special purpose,
but I feel my way
between mosquito bites and elongated lakes,
and the days surge through the years;
the objectors of benign bodily behavior

Yes, I smile imperceptibly
and shed a tear,
because there's nothing I can do
about anything,
in any fundamental way

My time has no special purpose,
but I notice the pinnacles and towers
of wonders and miracles
around me,
as I gulp the fully-fledged breakfasts
of early morns

I know something
about the solar system's third planet,
but not much,
and I sense the magnitude of the universe,
but as a child,
and I try to take death lightly;
a bird hovering over the pond
in the depths of June's pastorality,
and the world I've created vanishes
into the black hole of an instant,
in a timeless version
of the anesthesia at Umeå University Hospital

My time has no special purpose,
so I let unintentionality dance
like dandelion seeds in backlight
over the meadow,
and in the wobbling of letters
through the emergence of language
across the white tabula rasa of the paper,
while my face dries
like sheets hung on the clothesline
and stretched stockfish
in the trumpet blasts of the wind