You have to be lucky
to have the night at your feet,
the wind in its cave and nearby,
an old cat dreaming of sardines.
Too lost in song or the joy of his wings,
perhaps he did not see the glass door.
Or perhaps he did, and seeing his reflection,
I read the morning news as if I’m in Oslo,
sipping akevitt at the Grand Café, a river
of sunlight coursing down Karl Johans gate