Air Mail - Tomas Transtomer

[Larry Robinson]

Air Mail

On a hunt for a mailbox
I carried the letter through town.
In the great forest of stone and concrete
this lost butterfly fluttered.

The stamp’s flying carpet
the address’s reeling letters
plus my sealed-in truth
now winging over the ocean.

The Atlantic’s crawling silver.
The cloudbanks. The fishing boat
like a spat-out olive pit.
And the wakes’ pale scars.

Down here work goes slowly.
I often sneak peeks at the clock.
The tree-shadows are black figures
in the greedy silence.

The truth is there on the ground
but no one dares to take it.
The truth is out on the street.
No one makes it their own.

	- Tomas Transtomer
	(Translated by Patty Crane from Swedish)