[In my innermost] Poem by Morten Søndergaard

In my innermost thoughts
numbed hands are labouring
coffins into a vertical night,
a machine measures the strength of fear,
follows the white,
rising, light-giddy force
as it runs through the lungs' blood vessels
right into
the salty taste of the nightmare,
that is how I proceed
like a drunkard
with a mindless smile creasing my face,
it is
the small absences,
their contents
unfolded to sun-ray pain.

Translation: John Irons