On the hunt for a letter box
I took the letter through the city.
In the big forest of stone and concrete
the straying butterfly flickered.
The flying-carpet of the stamp
the staggering lines of the address
plus my own sealed truth
soaring now over the ocean.
The Atlantic's creeping silver.
The cloud-banks. The fishing-boat
like a spat-out olive stone.
And the pale scars of the wakes.
Down here work goes slowly.
I ogle the clock often.
The tree-shadows are black ciphers
in the greedy silence.
The truth's there, on the ground
but no one dares to take it.
The truth's there, on the street.
No one makes it his own.
~ by Tomas Transtromer
from New Collected Poems
trans. by Robin Fulton