*Why did so many buses go
To Kyyjärvi of all places,
when I was young?
Why did the sun-drowned March firmament
thrill to Schumann’s Lied
Ich wandre nicht,
smoothly captured in the morning
on my tape?
Why could nothing,
not even for a moment,
really shake me
from the sense of being outside,
from the belief that there is no direction,
that existence remains enigmatic?
Our story was doomed to end with a crash.
I suppose it was like you said: we'd already caused each other
too much pain. But there is something
offensive in the very staging
of the break-up.
You turn round on the way out, bid a last farewell,
and then pass through the hospital gates. You have a sense of reality,
of course you will manage. I still wonder
through what moods you walked back that day,
towards the city’s silent afternoon alarm! Sorrow – or
just relief? In my bare room voices must
Our last excursion à deux:
he is already speechless. By train
to Tavastehus. There is nothing to say!
It is a sparkling winter’s day, sun gleams.
Don't want to eat, don’t want to see the Sibelius Museum.
I talk anxiety, talk sorrow.
Then sevenths, souvenirs are bought: Clifford
Brown, Sarah Vaughan. Home exists, though, the sound
of flight. What sun?
The orbit is defined
by an unknown heavenly body.
translated from Finland-Swedish by David McDuff