THE DISTANCE BETWEEN HERE AND NOW

With you into a silence
only night can explain.
The telephone and its story,
one that leaves the art part out of Oslo.

Often I would see you walking there.
Other times the moon would seem to slip
between the trees. Or I would imagine
myself interrupting you as you were about

to say something. I never know what.
I always assume more than can happen
and end up having to forgive myself again.
Then I close my eyes and pretend

it has to be Tuesday. As if that
could be the answer to a prayer.