A Note Left Against Ibsen's Shoe
Ejlert, you're sooo late.
We sacrificed this scene without you
and have gone to the harbour.
The clouds are howling into the fiord—
the colour of dropping leaves—
don't kill yourself to meet us.
Remember the train ride
downhill through Aquavit increments
from Bergen to Oslo?
Ejlert, you're such a drunk
in a sober era—get high on words instead,
the way you did at University.
Don't meet us at love turned
to stone; we'll be inside
with the petrified man from Gomorrah.
The petrified man from Gomorrah