In Norway they don’t do
advertisements, are few.
Milk-coloured lens over mountain-town
you can't see right through.

On the Fløibanen, count seven minutes of up.

They moved in white, eyes incandescent.
Husked Scandinavian braided brain
storms and manners.

Thanking you so much.

EU Passports thin with cookie cutter conversation
shallow hello.

You birds, who have flown away
find yourself without a place to land.

I, uh, need to hold-off happiness, she’d
indicated loosely to a distressed apartment
de-dressed, stressed head, locked. Dreads.
(Find myself these days
want to be friends with the girl who cuts her own hair
grows it, twines it with string in time).

I wanted once to grow you out like a bad haircut!

From the mountains I wrote a letter
(I wrote you a letter to make myself feel better).
Hoping the paper catches current and arrives
in time or before I do.

In Norway there are few
you wouldn’t know you were being sold to/


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