Close To The Skin Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Fettered in yesterday’s dim chronicles
slow trains still carry their freight
in a tell tale acceleration
into unknown lands of dire deeds
and other kinds of transparencies.

Loaded chords of bringing it back home
reverberate in this drained land
where commerce no longer pays the bill
and there will be no further indignation
at the turn of each new breath.

The desperate ongoing grasp
wields both umbrella and a sword,
attempting all that can’t be had,
that which tributaries never can voice,
nor greet by the shore.

This “I feel” that unfolds at midnight,
that which no double cross can erase,
nor even put a name to,
is the place where I dare to dabble
with kaleidoscopic intrusion.

Dive on you fathers of blue delusion,
I have another name for all
that you just might put aside.
It no longer calls in pitches
whales can understand.