--- S U S A N   H .  M A U R E R

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.