Life is a house swaying in the wind

Life is a house swaying in the wind
     with hop bine rambling round walls and stairs,
         laughter round a quick sob.
The house must be sold quickly before it falls,
       its rooms already let out foul speech.
How I miss you at times, when the lightning fills
    the sky, you're like Venice in December, when it rains.

Your neck is a barn door, a church wall,
    it narrows upwards when one looks from below,
         when you stand on a ladder, hitting a nail.
And the nail, too, reaches to the sky
              and the sky to infinity, this will never end,
        a knife has now been struck through the heart
             like the nail through the sky.
These houses must be sold, I think, buildings,
        and I think of how by Sannäs
            the hens always cross the road
   and the poplar trees stand in a row
       like pious little boys.

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