RRRR
Voyage to Iceland – August 2014

RRRR (Poems) RRRR

  • Landscape, Above Sea Level

    above where the rocks first emerge and straddle low to the ground, where sheep thread the crook of the skeleton’s elbow, the switchback of rock leading up to the shoulder, up to the very head of the highlands, I walked down the slope to the crater, its breath coming out of the throat of the void, and I felt it was right to celebrate with song

  • The Library of Water

    I’ll send you a piece of the glacier, lying deep in the landscape past camp,
    where the faucets
    and the light in the bathhouse are on

    and the light of the front desk was turned out at eight, all copies of the lonely earth on

    the racks,
    and the glacier turns over in its grave shrinking bed—it calves,

    and I part my hair to the right with a comb,
    and I am content
    in my world of earth and fire, ice and shampoo and suspicious—how easily I get what I

    need

    when I point my finger,

    when I point to a well and I clasp my hands,
    here is the church, here is the steeple, open the door
    and the world is a glass overflowing

  • Confirmare

    I wanted to go to the Library of Water,
    and since it became clear we wouldn’t make it to the library,

    I took one stone,
    smooth discus

    stone from the countless black stones of the beach,
    and held it like a compass.

  • Caldera

    The rules of this field are simple, and immediate, coming up from the ground, heat and scent of sulphur in the cracks they have long been making—so when you look into the boiling pot and say,

    this is a part of the earth they forgot to finish, you mean you can see its inner workings, unfinished heart, and at night, when we shift in our too-small bed, we know the other’s pulse and their falling asleep by the rising of our sheets

  • Piece of Blue Machinery, with Music

    It looks like the frame for a large bell to hang from or like a picture frame—its back legs
    prop up its front. It beeps,—not pretty sounding,

    not like the music from the lone house in the clearing below—and trundles backwards,
    slowly—the eastern ridge, far away slides through its harness

    like the head of a horse. Now that I’m thinking, we were in Denver last year,
    admiring those different mountains, the cigarettes

    were much cheaper, but the sculpture we saw from Dedesee park
    had the same dark nostrils, deep in- and exhalation

    flared over the land, while the farmers checked the books
    and you slid your hand between my legs to play—

    blue horse, hooves raised.

  • Hofn

    I hold the sheepskin and my legs over your shoulders
    to keep you warm, and we are a peak roofed house, bright colored in the valley fern,

    with a string of desire
    pulling the red door, its bold face up and open.

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