Poem 1: Meanwhile on the 64th

Iceland

In forests of half-grown trees wet moss relents and whimbrels ring.

Ashore smokey bays the sea breeze breaks through creaking daylight-swallowed nights,

As humid bleakness fills with karaoke chants and clashing glass and Hot Dog smell.

The drizzly night silences limegrass-rhythms in pitch-black sand and

Knocks on drunken wooden pubs with biting whiskey sounds.

Cold stiff hands scent like scarlet wild thyme on the path to Hell’s backdoor,

Hot limp lulled bodies drift through fir green algaeous ponds and

wait for cloud curtains to present green glaring paper-streams on midnight skies.

I’m wide awake on the 64th.

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