Here I come, the invisible man, perhaps employed
by a Great Memory to live right now. And I am driving past
the locked-up white church—a wooden saint is standing in there
smiling, helpless, as if they had taken away his glasses.
He is alone. Everything else is now, now, now. The law of gravity pressing us
against our work by day and against our beds by night. The war.
translated by Robin Fulton
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Leonard Durso 
I looked up Tranströmer — poet and psychologist. I think the combination is everything you would need to write fascinating and insightful poems. And he was probably a bit of a theologian as well.
Yes, all that.