Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Tomas Transtromer

Breathing Space July
The man lying on his back under the high trees
is up there too. He rills out in thousandfold twigs,
sways to and fro,
sits in an ejector seat that releases in slow motion.

The man down by the jetties narrows his eyes at the water.
The jetties grow old more quickly than people.
They have silver grey timber and stones in their stomachs.
The blinding light beats right in.

The man traveling all day in an open boat
over the glittering straits

Will sleep at last inside a blue lamp
while the islands creep like large moths across the glass.

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