an arrow in the sky

There was an arrow where the sun used to be, over the blank in the skyline between Vesterbro and the south harbor, hanging over some invisible factory blowhole. It was outlined in pink, pointing north and just a little bit up. Following it, the wind kinked the clouds at a certain height, the top of a smokestack winked, the dark green blue dropped closer to the top of the Rådhus, and as the light faded it all turned west across the North Atlantic and outside the scatter of the atmosphere. I of course was left behind in the dark.

This afternoon I’ve been waiting for a booby-trapped magic wand to turn me into Frank O’Hara. That hasn’t happened, but I did see an awful lot of stylish chairs and a very nifty flying light bulb lamp.