The Couple

by Tomas Transtromer | October 26, 2011

They turn out the lamplight, and its white globe
glimmers for a moment: an aspirin rising and falling
then dissolving in a glass of darkness. Around them,
the hotel walls slide like a back-drop up into the night sky.

Love’s drama has died down, and they’re sleeping now,
but their dreams will meet as colours meet
and bleed into each other
in the dampened pages of a child’s painting-book.

All around is dark, and silent. The city has drawn in,
extinguishing its windows. The houses have approached.
They crowd in close, attentive:
this audience of cancelled faces.

--Translated by Robin Robertson

This poem appeared in the November 17, 2011, issue of the magazine.

Source URL: http://www.newrepublic.com//article/books-and-arts/96720/the-couple