The wind howls, plays the saw, bends the hazed horizon Poem by Risto Oikarinen

The wind howls, plays the saw, bends the hazed horizon. Pupils of pitch-dark contract, light gleams from the fog: The Flying Lintula Nunnery punctures the bloated belly of the sea, masts scrape the vault of heaven torn by star pellets. The residents sway in the kitchen: the abbess whips eggbutter, a novice folds pasties, a nun pounds beef, hums a hymn rhythmically, from bar to bar, from year to year, they prepare for the horizon, for the wedding of heaven and earth, it's rocking, it's rocking, clouds beat the windows, I start to feel sick, I want to stop whipping, folding, pounding, chanting, sailing between the worlds.