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I'm pulling my bookmarks out of Tomas Transtromer's The Half-Finished Heaven so I can return it to the library on time, which I don't really want to do. Here are some of my favorite bits:

Every person is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.

and:

Two truths approach each other. One comes from inside, the
other from outside,
and where they meet we have a chance to catch sight of ourselves.

The man who sees what's about to take place cries out wildly:
"Stop!"

and here's half of the poem Solitude:

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 fishtailed 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.

Sigh.