Brush Strokes Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Brush Strokes

Brush strokes

The sky this afternoon had odd clouds
looked like icebergs floating on pink air

The seagulls took refuge on my terrace.

A grey wolf with a leg of lamb scratched
on the door, I let it in.
when preparing the meat, the wolf left
down the hall that was dimly lit

I asked no question

I remembered a Russian painter of black forests
and dark red sky I think he was foresighted
therefore, sent to a Gulag.

The sea in the bay is dark with white spots
the Russian has gone mad, was his name Kozlovski?

Back in the hall where the wolf had disappeared
left a pile of dung as proof, in case, I thought
it was a dream.

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