Harald Sohlberg, “Fisherman’s Cottage” 

in the museum gallery 
craquelure on black Norwegian trees 

as if the dusklight is piercing through 
their wooden centuries  

the glowing white cabin on the edge 
of the water is home in any language  

people nearly pass by the painting  
without looking          but again and again 
they pause as if hearing faint music 

faces lightly creasing for a moment 
as if trying to recall a name from childhood 

I love watching these brief hauntings 
seizing strangers        a jog in the fabric 

of their public days    I feel  
I am holding for them the loose  

strange moments already sliding  
off of time                   always be careful 

in the city        you may go home  
with your pockets filled with someone 

else’s hours     like walking off  
with the half- full shopping cart  

that isn’t yours            doorways 
built in other centuries watching  
all your little orchestrations 

for a moment we all lived in that pale house 
beyond the woods     empty but for the sound 

of each other’s footsteps echoing  
just on the other side of the air