The Green Bear That Lives Near Ilpoinen

A green bear is rolling among the blockhouses. No clues can help fill kinships into their wordless windows... The horizon's trinkets are pencil grey, in the whited-out bell where a round tung deafens the eye like a puff of air.

An altering haze of alder leaves approaches the birches' grazed green flecks upon allergenic air, the wood's horizon of breastfeathers. On to islands of silence in the watery roar, burnt drops of voice fall from the wind.

Scan the badged belt before you: at one point a milky flame frightens children at dusk. A castle's green cap peeps among the cranes where the white ship, playing at planes, lands on the trees, and the mast stands on its hands, playing at no feet.

The greenhill of waste is plugged at the neck with gouged earth. Beyond it, the house of God and the jackdaws and perched like a dove the watchtower

for seafarers' stars. Just this horizon wears these ornaments no matter what we were born - cats, aquarians, academicians, artists or fish: this little room is our observatory - these little things our constellation.