The flight over the couple
in cosmetics told me
there is a salmon stream
in Reykjavik running through
town. They helped me get
Black Death to drink and
told me how to drink it.
When the lights went out she
put her foot upon his lap. I
could not escape his leg. It's
always been my imagination.
The tour bus swings and there it
is, the salmon river, right through
town in glinting light, fast moving.
The tour guide is one of those intelligent
Sunday school teacher who is
someone else. The weather's labile,
flits from snow to sun to hail tapping on
the bus door. A huge rainbow trails the bus
like a friendly puppy. Black sand.
"We don't have weather, we have
samples," she observes. All the
tour guides say that.
The time change has me flummoxed.
I'm exhausted. I'm tired and head for home.
The Esja with its view of the Atlantic, sapphire.
Head swivels, doors open, pivot, see
the sadness of blue water.