Code

Couplets, Haiku. We
were walking Oslo harbor.
It began to rain.

The cafes’ tables
were full, awnings funnelling
water away from

red wine glasses.

An Ibsen rain, an
Ibsen line—as dreary as—
oh, life revolves a-

round so little. We
build it up and tear it down
as though there can
never be happiness.

Yet we hope against all reason
to be a raindrop on our childhood
falling on the Rosetta stone.