Youth seen sideways has the profile of an old man.
   Green hair slicked back, water flows over the fawn
of his ears, running down serrated ribs of
slippery foliage into a dark pool...

pumped back up
a breath of wind
circles his head.

Does the path begin at the water-pumping station,
or across the river? Straining the ligaments of one
steep climb after another, past split bodies of rock
and tall stands of narrow-minded plants

wiggly lines channel the Baroque period with its
penchant for mirrors within mirrors, the play
within the planet's circulations, un-
folding forms we may some-
day learn to resume.

 

     the Baroque: K.O. Knausgaard, My Struggle. Book One. New York,
     2009.