Solitude 1 by Tomas Tranströmer

Right here I was nearly killed one night in February.

My car slewed on the ice, sideways,
into the other lane. The oncoming cars
their headlights came nearer.

My name, my daughters, my job
slipped free and fell behind silently,
farther and farther back, I was anonymous,
like a schoolboy in a lot surrounded by enemies.

The approaching traffic had powerful lights.
They shone on me while I turned and turned
the wheel in a transparent fear that moved like
eggwhite.
The seconds lengthened out making more room
they grew long as hospital buildings.

It felt as if you could just take it easy
and loaf a bit
before the smash came.

Then firm land appeared: a helping sandgrain
or a marvelous gust of wind. The car took hold
and fish-tailed back across the road.
A signpost shot up, snapped off a ringing sound
tossed into the dark.

Came all quiet. I sat there in my seatbelt
and watched someone tramp through the blowing snow
to see what had become of me.