At Midnight 2 Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Weird tools you fools oversee
lend themselves to lost cure and lore,
play in waves of sweet blue shades
where saxophones proudly walk ahead,
murmuring nonsense at the coming midnight,
teasing direction’s mislaid heed
with a wink and a nod.

Words of deep penetration
flock at the foot of rolling water’s entry
where pools of hindsight clone
their dark aspirations,
attempting another context,
giving breath to another kind of birth
where the water already has gushed away.