a mink passes over me
as I glide under
the wooden bridge

a heron stands in wait

the water swirling and seething
with spawning bleak

“I’m sorry I blather so much”

Someone says
I will walk in your footsteps

I respond
wouldn’t recommend

and consider
timing

about hands and minds
that learn late
what they were for

and good maps
never appearing

at dawn
the song thrush counting notes
atop a high spruce

and the shimmer
of a robin
somewhere
behind the cabin

“on my way to work
I walked past a burning gas station
that had been hit by a missile
there are also many civilian casualties”

first thing
I wash my hands
and splash my face

water from the lake
still coming
out of the tap

barefoot in the kitchen
sunbeams tickling feet
in the quiet summer morning

poems are not weapons
perhaps more like a cup of hot coffee
carefully carried outside
to catch the early light

”I am a little worried
because I am being warned by intelligence
that this
or the next night
may not be completely
peaceful”

here no clouds in the sky

days of clear skies, nights with thunder

”at night heavy rains
sometimes explosions mixed with thunder,
and occasionally not completely clear
whether it is the sky and thunder or explosions”

me on the porch looking up

cirrus clouds
two ospreys
whistling
soaring

Sitting behind my house
sheltering from the wind
with thirsty mosquitoes

“there was another air raid at night,
still heavy until morning
rumors circulating about another serious attack
we saw a lot of equipment on the borders again
so we need to stock up on provisions and medicines”

it's surprisingly quiet today
except the large aspens
beside my house
new leaves
trembling
in the fresh westerly wind

and fir cones
puffing clouds of pollen
sometimes mistaken
for forest fires

Thinning light
darkness taking its course

White-tailed sea eagles
cackling and squawking
settling in twilight

rings on still brackish water

on the outer skerries
sunset in my back
looking into the open sky
on the rounded cliff
facing south-east
Baltic horizon

watching out for drones
investigations
“I don’t remember when it wasn’t urgent”
nearby explosions

three arctic terns chasing each other
diving from high, down close
and screeching

first twilight stars

streaks of wind shattering the calm water
my small rowboat drifting in the gusts

“in the latest attacks
the aggressor started using missiles
that penetrate concrete fortifications”

reeds swaying
above debris on the bottom

soft bare feet
and lavender mornings

squinting
in last light
footprints fading in wet sand

waves one after another
whispering
bursting bubbles

no mermaids or sirens
only hushed
out and in
breaths
of porpoises and dolphins
in calm seas

clouds moving low
over the lake and the island

“you live in a country
where you can safely look at the sky
and don't need to react
to air raid alerts 24/7”

I sit on the porch
looking at stratus clouds
a slight wind
rustling the aspens
rain in my face

After returning
from the Baltic archipelago
I row in the stillness,
of the lake at dusk,
black-throated loon
whistling and wailing
at a distance

in the western sky
Jupiter and Venus
side-by-side
seemingly moving
towards each other

”I will also look out the window
into the darkness here
and look at the stars
maybe you and I will look
at the same star
and think about the very same thing”

My friends say
I live in a shack
I don’t take offence,
it suits me.

It sits
on the side
of a small hill,
with pines
and bedrock
outcrops behind.

My porch opens
to the southwestern sky,
over the field
through the alders
the lake
sometimes glitters.

And before closing the door
a slight bow

Gently approaching
the cow
anxiously eyeing us

her newborn calf
bawling loudly
as I catch and hold it

Friede’s tagging pliers jamming

and his family watching
from the four-wheeler

I lose balance
falling sideways
releasing the calf

the cow snorts
head low
kicking dust
charges
again
a hoof stepping
on my ribcage
as I roll away

I am one of those
who cross back and forth
when others want to cross

it takes three cars
or a tractor with a full wagon
and about ten of us
live on the island,
in summer, guests arrive

I remain by the water
while it moves and sings,
the lake never sleeps

the diesel engine answers
puffs and chokes
rattling and clattering

the song goes on
without ambition
or recognition

in ordinary clothing

In a Cessna 337, photographing
Baltic grey seals

bracing against the door
with no seatbelt
in a steep turn
the door suddenly flies open

maps and papers
whirl through the cabin

600 feet below—
rocks and foaming skerries

Peter grabs me by the waistband
and pulls

On the handrail

of our rusty ferry

first days of April
the ice‑blue wagtail arrives

lilting
tsee‑lít

then on top of the wheelhouse
as if nothing had happened

a nest
by the noisy old diesel

until late August
leaving south again

Garden of springing water,
cowries,
arcs of nautilus and oyster

“It’s yours if you want it.
I give it to you
as a gift
from my ancestors.

But first a question:

How old
is this green-checkered
costume of mine?”

Looking closely,
guessing:

“New.”

“Oh no! Then you cannot have
this ancient iridescent garden.”

I leave through a window,
into the backyard
bordering the mire

into the deep cold
bog water,
darker and older
than his garden

my writing is like
crows playing with sticks
pecking at the full stops
and eating question marks alive

crows on the fenceposts
by the pasture
watching
as I pass again

my small mouth harp
twanging and whirring
heading to the forest

arriving at the dock
the ferry on the island side,
in the brisk wind
I row over to fetch it

ferrying back over the sound
to get my car

with only the pair of nesting wagtails
as passengers

The three-day storm now abated
the lake a perfect mirror

I walk the eastern shore
thinking of the sturdy
half-cut aspen

soft trail, air unmoving

the beaver-chewed tree
groaning, creaking,
tearing, cracking, snapping—
tipping over the trail with a thud!

Rowing through the channel
under the old wooden bridge
past the beaver lodge
to the south of the island

a marsh harrier briefly accompanies me

in the reeds
soft croaks of toads embracing

across the land
over the water
a single light

a lantern, a fire
on a distant ridge.
looking, listening
letting eyes adjust

we don’t have to go

How does fear escape
from under quivering eyelids?

Akhmatova didn’t write Requiem
to be swallowed whole

not in the throat
not in the chest
not in the gut
but in the lap

so i leave the book open

Wavelets
rock my rowboat
tethered in the shallow bay

in the reeds
a common frog croaks
like a creaky mooring

a pair of teals
swooshing in

cool breeze
through the alders

My body screams
and whimpers
like a newborn baby
and I care for it

how did I get this old
feeling
younger and younger?

Living on overtime
is out of fashion

skin hanging loose
hair thinning
wearing out,

resisting it
can be hard work,
yet there is no effort

Seven years old,

I scraped a tiny golden leaf
from the Buddha at the temple

hid it in my pocket,
in a treasure box
beside a sapphire and an opal

back in the house I couldn’t resist
showing my father

the next day we returned
to Wat Pho

my father took me back
to the abbot

he only smiled

Once there was
a very small boy

a baby
in my mother’s arms,
reaching for the breast

later, following
in my father’s footsteps,
I set out

and so I came
to a great forest
where no one lived

then the money ran out

searching under
the sky
I went astray

years later
I returned
my father still alive

when he died
he left me

more than enough

I tried to hold it,
but it did not stay

after that,
my hands closed

again
I went to the forest

I came to a gate
in a mountain
with a sign:

Welcome

but I did not reach
the handle

it opened
from within—

a glinting cascade

The ferry glides in its own noisy way
through the ice channel

the neighbouring couple with their infant
gift me orange-yellow tulips
for the ride

before parting we stay
a moment
in darkness
under stars

Cleaning my small house,
the fields swept by rain
clouds shifting slowly

I put on rubber boots
and walk the neat path
around the island

the green woodpecker
laughing in the distance
anthills warming in the sun 

Watching the sunrise
from a small granite
outcropping

a slow humming dance,
waving my arms,
moving feet,
shadow boxing
to warm myself

two puddles of rainbow
beside the sun
on the ice

a wood pigeon
begins to coo

Listening to the clean crunch
of my footsteps
as I walk
over the snowy ice

in my boot tracks
from yesterday
a fox trotted
then turns
from my trail
towards
the distant
mainland

I live with it,
sometimes notice
what touched ground,
letting it work
as it will

like faint tracks
in wet leaves

the white rump
of a roe deer
bounding
out of sight

I sometimes
sleep like a fish
almost hovering
in my bed

making discreet sounds
like a herring—

once mistaken
for a submarine

Along the dirt road
I take care not to step
on outstretched earthworms
in the drizzling early light

and wonder
where they are heading

then I drift into the forest
blue and longing

a pair of ravens overhead
side-by-side
making loops
and turning over their wings

finally I find their nest
hidden high in a fir

Sometimes I need
to remind myself:

no more inner monastery
for a few hours—

to knock
on the door
before stepping out

not to scare the birds
and squirrels
at the feeding table

This small row-boat
just large enough
for one oar each

drifting into a sandy bay
the sun slowly sinking

“when we get off the boat,
we’ll be on the same sand”

still a long way from each other

Ducking under the livestock fence,
the taut barbed wire
catches the back of my jacket

I hang there, a scarecrow
wriggling free

—I crawl beneath
where the badger passes
at dawn

Today the forest
of pine and spruce
leans and bends

as I pass a clearing
and sit on a rotten stump

in the sideways rain
my instinct says:
go home,

a piece of grit
in my rubber boot,

the soup on the stove
still boiling

Sitting here at the base of a pine,
feeling its roots moving under me

a white and blue face
comes flinging at me

a jay lands
an arm’s length away,
its head feathers erect

looking me straight in the eye

I go for a walk in the early morning
into the pathless forest
in knee-deep fresh snow

the firs and spruces in white disguise
lost in the forest
I know so well

the soft whistle of a bullfinch,
I stay awhile

then I come across tracks
—tracking myself

Morning—
on the small tufty hill
overlooking a meadow,

curling up in the sunbeams,
like a fox
after a long night’s hunt,

a blackbird rustling
in last year's oak leaves

in the distance
the drumming
of the great spotted woodpecker

My neighbour’s cat Lily,
hissing and clawing,
had to be relocated
to the stable

meowing and yearning
although the bowl
was always full,
lounging
in the easy chair

at night,
prowling under my house,
I let her in for a light snack

Eddies form in the trace of my oars
rowing along the northern shore

lost in thoughts of you
and the mirroring sky

a sharp thump
and scraping
striking the sole known underwater stone

In stormy weather
this little house of mine
on stilts
rattles

sometimes I imagine
anchoring it with wires
so it doesn't lift
into the sky

Listening intently to poets
is like reading love letters

or receiving gifts
from an unknown lover:

“I will take from you
everything you give me”

At my age
pace is slowing,
life comes rushing at me

I saunter
and sit by a tall spruce

my old friends fewer now
some are leaving
others already gone

overhead
the greylag geese
finally arriving

Nights are wild
alive with stray dogs
running through my head
barking in my waking body

I try to call them,
feed them
words

instead I take them out
for a slow walk
under the Big Dipper

in the dark
they keep baying
at the stars

Concealing your body
with a small cloth

you turn away
as if called—

I am slowly undone

you don’t need to be naked

only whisper,
even through a tiny reed straw

I like my little house
in its simplicity
and with its inconveniences

it doesn't even have
a functioning lock,
it's always open

I gave you the key to me

Me in the forest
close to the shore,
head and body
against a spruce

listening
maybe you are there

tears dripping
the resin

fragrance
of spruce
and the sound of
soft wavelets lapping

as night falls
geese settling,
oinking and gabbling
in the field

then falling silent

through the alders
by the shore
faint lights
from the village
reflecting on the water

Taking a slow stroll in the woods,
the west wind tears at the trees

I listen to my breathing
and each thought—
but nothing is new

I come to a clearing
and remain there awhile

a flock of wood pigeons circles in
landing briefly in one of the oaks,
then taking off again

After a long evening
by the computer

stepping out on the porch
for a moment
breathing silence

a tawny owl cries klaivitt!
charging through my body

night hunter
brushing silence

In a single-engine Piper
beside Fred, both asleep
over the vast plains,

the seasonal migration
of wildebeest and zebra
slowly surging
beneath the wing

the engine coughs
and stops

"oh, I forgot to switch to the second tank"

Long, bumpy ride
across the dusty savannah,
pausing in Fort Ikoma

a cool wind through acacias,
we drink Dodoma red

with the bouquet
of a charging rhino

When I came into the world
there were no special signs

no double rainbows
showers of flowers
or conch shells
sounding in dreams

only a small listing
in a local paper:
a son

headlines:
Cold War nuclear tensions
and la dolce vita

my mother’s body
an overcast November
afternoon, 1958

Your call
would travel lightly,

covering distance

through war
and weather,

over bodies of water

and arrive here

landing like a small, furry animal

inside me

I stumble out the door,
tripping on daylight,

a flash of pain
from the bicycle ride
across the ice
last night

the squirrels
on the porch
flee into the maple tree

I don’t try
to mystify existence
but it mystifies me

goldeneyes
throw their necks back,
beak nearly touching tail

a single drop of water
landing behind them

These small poems
are more like fetching wood
than making a fire

a cold wind
through the naked trees
in the pitch black morning

I fetch an armful of wood
and sit quietly
listening to the wind

a fire in the stove
a single candle
until dawn

I am getting closer

climbing the high rock
at night
rolling backwards—

finding a grip
in the last moment

but
how much longer

Sometimes birds
simply don’t do it

a single
distant note

or
a faint wing print
in the new snow

no showing up,
no song,
no hiding,
no path

After days of isolation
I smell slightly exotic

cleansing in
the blue hour,
words and melodies

showering in the
river of the sky
the Milky Way,
no mind

Frost in the moss
long fir shadows
the early sun
warming the frozen ground,
steam rising

deeper in the forest
a mob of crows cawing
and overhead jackdaws
heading that way

I sit still

my back against a fir
drinking hot tea

I find grandfather painting
the low stone walls and juniper
on the high rounded cliff

—if you want this,
you can have it all, he says.

Feral cats hiding
we tried to feed them
hissing, screeching

then one after another
dad shot them

taking notes
becoming music
while walking

singing inward
humming outward
and still walking

crossing granite bedrock

hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm

once heard a bear humming
past the hide we sat in
then rising on its hind legs
rubbing against a dry resinous pine

even softer
mhm mhm mhm mhm mhm

a green woodpecker close by
klee klee klee klee klee klee

—a woodpigeon
coo coo co coo-coo, coo coo co coo-coo, coo

In the lead-gray morning
clouds hang low
polishing the molten water

a pair of geese with necks erect
on a small outer islet

four whooper swans
skimming
in close formation

one briefly
dipping its wing,
brushing the surface

I climb up to the attic
retrieving a suitcase
of old notebooks

it stands there
among the rubble
covered in dust

the first notebook I open:

"I don't know"

Under the night sky
I listen,
Aurora Borealis
and stars

then the bounce
of a thought:

The Sámi take off their hats

My eyes discern no horizon
our research ship swaying 
over the banks

aw aw-lee
aw-aw aw-lee

waves of song
long-tailed ducks
in their thousands 
yodeling,
as they dive for blue mussels
 
our hydrophones

picking up
harbour porpoise clicks

My cleats
denting the wet ice

staggering
and slipping
on the mirror

a flock of wood pigeons
spiralling from the sky

falling to my knees
in near silence—

by the shore
trills, whistles,
chatter
a starling tuning

I had a splinter deep in my finger
refusing to be removed

after months of traveling
it surfaced
leaving a tiny hole

now the only thing rattling
is the house in the gale

I used to hate winter
now I'm going to miss it

perhaps I landed
or
something stopped
eating me

in the northern field
two white-tailed eagles
at the butchered ewe

ravens soaring

I am not an ancient sailor
who ignores
the warnings of the elders

I am a man asking for reality.

Setting out alone
in strong headwind,
sleet piling up on my back
as I row towards a sheltered bay
on a distant outer island

halfway I give up
as a pair of goldeneyes
fly past me downwind
on their whistling wings

I head home,
to the warning
hearth
and a cup of tea

I build a hut
in the spruce forest
before anyone
knows the narrow path
leading here—

the moon comes uninvited

a faint star
then suddenly
a bright satellite

cranes calling
from afar
and geese gabbling
beyond the fields

the sky
pulling in
echoes

standing still
twilight moves
into darkness

Sneaking up at night
growling—trilling
a musky whiff

come

head in your lap
paws kneading
curling up
purring—

At night
in the open maloka,
cicadas and frogs
in the surrounding forest

Don Rosendo and Doña Luzmilla
take turns singing icaro

I am a bit bored
staring at the roof and rafters
seeing right through it
looking down at my body—
the night sky

In the morning frost
long pine shadows
over the field

Mahler’s Fifth Symphony
filling my room

a crane
flaps heavily by
looking in

After our first phone call
slightly formal,
I walk dazed
to the other side of the island
in a clearing
I lie down
on a bed of white anemones
today
the willow warbler
has arrived

In early spring
more insects gather
inside my house
than outside

lacewings, midges, flies

sometimes I consider
a mosquito net
but never
put one up

leaving it to the spiders

A cold spring night
we huddle together
with Elza and Selga
who joined us
in the tent
for warmth

by day I am
tightly secured
at the top
of a tall spruce

eye to eye
with a hovering
dragonfly

You in your Gaz Volga
arriving at a crime scene,
your hooded parka,
a slight, knowing grin

I stir my soup
by my hearth
here on the island,
where no crime
has been committed
as long as anyone
can remember

for now far from each other

I still walk shorelines,
barefoot on the beach

weather in driftwood,
lines and veins in polished stones
as I jump from one
ice-age stone to another.

It’s in the feet

suddenly forgetting
and slipping

Leaving the house
father forgets his briefcase
I drive him full speed to the airport

the six-seat aircraft already taking off
into a low black stormcloud wall

after the storm
we found the pieces of the wreck
no survivors

A dark, heavy Sunday morning
before the mistle thrush arrives,
I stay indoors, singing alone

humming a slow
Hasidic nigun
perhaps lifting the low clouds a little

through detonations in burning cities
through closed doors,

and the neighbour, a hunter, rifle in hand,
passes the cottage

glimpsing the vanishing moon

At sixty-seven
I stop trying to understand
how to live in this body

no proud fanfares
no alarm clocks

only a quiet
sometimes irritated
gratitude
getting out of bed
at 3:30

and seeing the lake
beyond the open fields

Picking up a Pygmy pipistrelle
from the floor
under the roof beams

as if carrying a lit candle
through an open space

cupping the flame
with both hands
shielding its flicker

then releasing it under the stars

In the cold spring wind
I go to fetch wood
behind my cottage

a solitary minor fluting
from the sparse forest
beyond the hill

the last snow
now melting

Night journaling
stirs me awake
as lines emerge

that familiar itching
under my shirt
hoisting hay bales
onto the
elevator

the two-legged stepping
of the erect stallion
mounting the mare

the twitching of their skin
when bitten by gadflies
peaceful hot
summer noons
standing in lazy pairs
swishing their tails
at each other’s faces

the rich smell
of their breath
and bodies
feeding them hay

my body remembers

The open fire,
a large sooty
aluminium kettle
among the burning logs

in the lowland
rainforest of Ucayali,
Don Rosendo
boiling ayahuasca

the kettle shifts
as logs burn thin

golden brew
spilling into the dust

no pasó nada, he says

Snowfall again
several days now,

footprints
covered
in layers of white,

no small bells
ring clearly
in these tracks,

yet I continue
along this faint trace
over the ice

My repeated tears
collected by
my grandfather,

filling a small
silver cup

my drenched face
his white hair
as we sit
on the soft carpet

—let’s make cosmetics
for a forest nymph, he said

add a pinch of anthill
while thunder rolls
stir with moonbeams
letting it steep
in a bowl of amanita

So you think
you’ve seen it all?

You haven’t seen me
dancing under the broken paper star
after a day of computer work

then suddenly remembering
a few lines of Tractatus
and spinning on
in darkness

Today
the pines
stand silent

inviting me
deeper in

soft ground
underfoot,

my steps
are light.

There may be a way
through this forest

—it’s perhaps
where I end

In the forest

I read this aloud once:

if nobody ever heard these words

or ever read them,

this would still be written

I stand among silent trees

where speech is thinning
and uncertainty remains

Arriving at the dock
pausing a while
before igniting the ferry diesel
this calm mid-May morning

a barn swallow
gliding and sweeping
twittering and chattering
landing on the high ferry lantern

touching down
from southern Africa

As I try chanting
the brittle antiphon
aer enim volat

while making coffee in the morning
the remaining butter jumps

from its jar
onto the old rug

laughing, I pick it up
and pull out
dirt and dust

I don't walk to get somewhere
I get somewhere to walk

I follow a narrow path
through the thorny
underbrush

the game trail ends
as if erased
in forking trails

Holding you
in my mind

like a bat in the attic
with its wings
around itself

at dusk
fluttering
into the night sky

your mouth
finds mine
as if by accident

I feel
a lineage awake in you

women who knew
how power moves
with and without force

I learn
how sound leaves me
how obedience
can feel like choice

you take me
I take you
and the night
changes shape

fire,
and the danger of it

we forget
until we are everywhere

the sky still there
as if nothing happened

we watch
we listen
attentive

Morning light
asks what balance
can give

I have heard hundreds
of teachings

letting language pass
through the poem
like wind

dark–
dong, dong, dong

almost gone–
ting, ting, ting

Who would have thought
seashells on a black mineral beach
could be stars in the heavens?

How did you do it?

It was all made up
long ago,

and I live inside it
each day
without remembering

In the chilly early May morning
I rise earlier than usual
walking the dirt road to the lake,
glimpsing the sun through
stands of trees and birdsong.

You said "When I look at your smile
and this nature, it seems to me
that our planet is perfect."

I sit by the shore
without thinking,
a merganser swims close
eyeing me

The future is hidden
behind our backs,

and approaching you
is like approaching
a distant island.

I row my double-ender,
not seeing what’s ahead,
dipping the oars
into the water

an occasional glance
over my shoulder,

stealing a glimpse
of the future