THE INDOORS IS INFINITE

It’s spring 1827. Beethoven

raises his death-mask and sails.

Europe’s windmills grind on.

The wild geese fly north.

Here is north, here is Stockholm:

floating palaces and hovels.

Logs in the royal bonfire

collapse from attention to at-ease.

There’s peace, vaccine and potatoes

but the city’s wells are breathing hard.

Outhouse barrels on litters like pashas

are hauled by night over North Bridge.

The cobblestones make them stagger

mademoiselles loiterers gentlemen.

Inexorably silent, that sign

with the smoking dark-skinned man.

So many islands, so many rowing

against the tide with invisible oars!

The sea lanes are opening, April May

and sweet honey-drizzling June.

The heat reaches the farthest islands.

The village doors are open, except one.

The snake-clock’s hands lick the silence.

Stone slabs shine with geology’s patience.

It happened like this or almost like this.

It’s a mysterious family saga

about Erik, jinxed by a painful curse,

crippled by a bullet through his soul.

He traveled to the city, met an enemy

and sailed home sick and gray.

That summer he’s bed-ridden.

The tools on the walls lament.

He lies awake listening to night-moths,

the wooly flutter of moonlight’s friends.

His strength fading, he knocks in vain

against the iron-clad tomorrow.

And the God of the deep calls out from the deep

“Set me free! Set yourself free!”

All of the surface action turns inward.

He’s taken apart, put back together.

The wind picks up and the briar roses

snag on the fleeing light.

The future opens, he looks inside

the self-revolving kaleidoscope

to see the blurry fluttering faces

of generations to come.

By mistake he catches sight of me

as I walk around right here

in Washington, among mighty houses

where only every other pillar bears weight.

White buildings in crematorium-style

where the dreams of the poor turn to ash.

The gentle slope begins to descend steeply

and imperceptibly turns into abyss.