Reading poems from Sweden on the train the in early dark.
My umbrella on the seat beside me–
orphaned at the transfer.
Here are some of the words, lines like self-sharpening tools:
Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from it,
but we have no choice.
It’s all one world. Now to the walls.
The walls are a part of you.
One either knows that, or one doesn’t; but it’s the same for everyone
except for small children. There aren’t any walls for them.
The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
“I am not empty, I am open.”
—Tomas Tranströmer, from the poem Vermeer