My new book of poetry arrived in the mail yesterday.
"Selected and Last Poems of Olav Hauge."

On the cover,
the northern sea moves towards darkness,
     away from the clouds.

Somewhere,
     there is a real sea.

My father is there,
     standing on the horizon,

          disappearing from my life…

"Language is a virus" said the artist.

Meanwhile, in the next room,
physicians are arguing
over a diagnosis.

Their words

are not the glue

sealing your fate.

Standing in front of the second story window
on an early summer morning.

There’s really only one question:

Should I open it?