by Keith Moul
Reykjavikians huddle beneath Hallgrimskirkja,
fusing by God’s force, living leeward in favor.
Pilots arrive or depart to wind shear, at trajectory
of mad possibilities, adjacent to a blessed ocean.
Visitor must both import and export false beliefs.
The last delivery included one new immigrant,
new Holland excavators and a bounty of paints.
A multi-colored house gets a fresh coat, but
late-arriving, our man settled for three bent cans.
Highway 1 circles past scrub side roads; toward
or away from the Norwegian Sea; forces you not
where you would go, but only where you can go.
I accede, untroubled, to the obvious loop adventure.
Reader, understand that you must explore Iceland.
You may not come clogged and merely be a tourist.
Travel fixes costs: landscapes expose novel truths;
terrain scarred by winds’ directions bereaves me,
as winds uplift plateaus and damn all scurrying life,
demand fealty. At dim light, alone on this landscape,
unmarked in earth’s rotation, I consult coordinates
on ancient maps to fix a new scale for anonymity.
Magnificence for my landscape; geothermal plume
under my feet; my voice confiscated as penalty
by winds cursing return; I navigate a moonscape
of primordial evolution, not ready to assume life.