In Oslo, on the skyline of brick and sharp glass
a line of gulls surveys the harbour
construction murmurs in the street below
our hotel has a balcony in zero degrees
and if we get our way
we will be off to summer shortly as we pretend
the world isn’t changing

unmasked crowds gather around shops (it is nearly
Christmas) and in the medieval castle grounds
a woman says “What would it be like
to have a proper king again?”
and the children look unsure, and one says,
“wouldn’t it be good?”

A glass elevator rises above the fjord,
reaching the building’s sharpest point.

It is always a strange time to be a body.

We all edge more towards sabotage.

Who will rescue whom?