Shut your eyes and smell that.
Fire broke out
in the middle of the night
while you were still touching.
Match to moss like stone to rock;
flames sculpted the landscape
where heavy heads made work
a fist of feathers.
Daylight hides the damage.
Wails have bleached
the wayward flakes of ash that left
the scene with the late wind.
There’s a kind of beauty in heaps
of collapsed houses;
the weight of beams that beat
with history’s perverted pulse.
Did you hear that spark?
Spat from the floor up
where hot logs melt the frost
that gets the first train home.
Run if you like, hide.
But there is nothing left to burn
‘cept the fjords that will always floor
the Bergen sunrise.
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