Tuesday, 5 January 2010

Another poem by Lars Gustafsson

Just this piece of wood

Hands deal with a silvered piece of wood
that the waves have washed ashore

parts of it decayed, parts of it

so hard it responds like a violin string
under a hammer and chisel

The wind, constantly complaining,
through these gaping openings

The saw that goes
The wind that blows

Most of what happens
takes place far from here.

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