Who wouldn’t want to bathe
in the fervent & fevered hands
of a northern spring?

What shut-out wouldn’t pray
for a ray of greyish grace?

Icelandic night
blue-dark
as an aquarium,
we undulate
over ceramic terrain.
Rain
forms an appraising glaze.

You’re no saint. I know,
though time to time every horizon

frays. Take this one,
strung strange
with green-gold
binds: light
comes tentative
& earnest
as the warbling trebles
of a young boy’s choir.

In the aftermath,
the current.

I’ll brave
what wavers, sift
through briny bric-a-brac washed up
along a black rock somewhere shore:

What won’t save us.
What’s welcome all the same.