Friday, January 16, 2015

black postcards


The calender all booked up, the future unknown.
The cable silently hums some folk song
but lacks a country. Snow falls in the gray sea. Shadows
fight out on the dock.

Halfway through your life, death turns up
and takes your pertinent measurements. We forget
the visit. Life goes on. But someone is sewing
the suit in silence.

—Tomas Tranströmer 
The Half-Finished Heaven 
translated by Robert Bly


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