Antidote to the Chaos of Imagination
Each of us knows the heathen sky in our own way.
Mine has no blue. What remains is a vast cloud
that draws up the ground and bay, as the light steeps
in an even stumble of rain. It’s the rain of childhood
and one or two Aztec gods. But here, in Reykjavik,
it has brought the seagulls down from foraging for
kittens. The great mountain Esja, our protector and
home to two giants—male and female—stopped being
a flat stone and has disappeared . . .
To the north, a sheep farmer in Arnarfjord
can’t remember the last time he received
a visitor. He has no wife or heifer. On days like this,
he’ll sit content at the kitchen window with his half
reflection, coffee, and a cigarette’s ember all day. 