jan oskar hansen
The woman who couldn’t
get warm tore the wood
paneling off her walls,
bright was the fire, but she
was still chilled to the bones.
Tore up floor boards,
she did, and terrified mice
silly, a lively fire, but her
heart was arctic.
In desperation she lit a bonfire,
made of oak furniture,
in her living room,
but she was a lump of ice;
only thawed when
fireman Peterson came
and kissed her blue lips warm
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