WINTER’S FORMULAS

I

I fell asleep in my bed

and woke up under the keel.

At four o’clock in the morning

when life’s picked-clean bones

mingle together coldly.

I fell asleep among the swallows

and woke up among eagles.

II

In the lamplight the road’s ice

glistens like grease.

This is not Africa.

This is not Europe.

This is nowhere other than “here.”

And that which was “I”

is only a word

in December’s dark mouth.

III

The institute’s pavilions

on display in the darkness

glow like TV screens.

A hidden tuning fork

in the immense cold

shivers out its tone.

I stand under the starry sky

and feel the world crawl

in and out of my coat

like in an anthill.

IV

Three black oaks rise from the snow.

So coarse, but nimble-fingered.

Out of their enormous flasks

the greenery will foam this spring.

V

The bus crawls through the winter evening.

It shines like a ship in the spruce woods

where the road is a narrow deep dead canal.

Few passengers: some old and some very young.

If the bus stopped and switched off its lights

the world would be obliterated.