Filipstad, Sweden. NYT.
White balls of lard hanging from the money tree
tremble at the suddenly unwelcome brown breeze;
the lights go out on top of the mountains
before marching bands can reach them with
glockenspiels.
Is this the end of pancakes as we know them?
Of homemade lingonberry butter?
Or can the common sand of humanity
prevail to uncover heads and hearts
in tandem?
A fine Baltic mist creeps over the steeple
and dampens woolen prayer rugs.
What mighty fortress will barbers build by day,
and wooden narwhals dismantle
by night?
by night?
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