Right here I was nearly killed one night in February.

My car slewed on the ice, sideways,
into the other lane. The oncoming cars ¡Ö
their headlights ¡Ö came nearer.

My name, my daughters, my job
slipped free and fell behind silently,
farther and farther back, I was anonymous, like a schoolboy in a lot surrounded by enemies.

The approaching traffic had powerful lights.
They shone on me while I turned and turned
the wheel in a transparent fear that moved like eggwhite. The seconds lengthened out ¡Ö making more room ¡Ö
they grew long as hospital buildings.

It felt as if you could just take it easy
and loaf a bit
before the smash came.

Then firm land appeared: a helping sandgrain
or a marvelous gust of wind. The car took hold
and fish-tailed back across the road. A signpost shot up, snapped off ¡Ö a ringing sound ¡Ö tossed into the dark.

Came all quiet. I sat there in my seatbelt
and watched someone tramp through the blowing snow
to see what had become of me.

Once there was a shock which left behind a long pale glimmering comet’s tail. It contains us. It makes TV pictures blurred. It deposits itself as cold drops on the aerials.

You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun among groves where last year’s leaves still hang. They are like pages torn from old telephone directories - the subscribers’ names are eaten up by the cold.

It is still beautiful to feel your heart throbbing. But often the shadow feels more real than the body. The samurai looks insignificant beside his armor of black dragon-scales.

I cry to you in the night, the house full of street sounds, we're awake and drunk. House, light, stillness, women's clothes on the floor, this is our island life. Men stare at me

in the fruitless weather, spend their hard money on fish and fowl. The way into pain is quicker than the way out of it. The village keeps track of forbidden mysteries.

Outside in the garden a gate hides melons in striped clothing. We tread loudly toward the winter. There is theatrical noise and kissing. Love isn't reasonable! The birds know.

I wait for summer, I want to build churches and schools without clocks, with windows open to wind. In spring there is no dreaming about the sea, we have forgotten to begin with forgiveness.