In Reykholt his statue inspects the old church’s
slight movements, doctrinal pauses before light
warms the wood pews, its garden of crosses
shaved from the hillside, also the sun-bleached
lava fields, fluttering mountains, awkward streams
keeping back the fjord’s distant glare, overseeing
the various separations.
The colorful doors of the scattered houses all close
in greeting. Winds panic from all sides,
graying the sky. My eyes stone in response
as I read the great sagas of our time,
those even history cannot shame.
In the margins I note such fear
solitude bears, its proximity to stone.
No music whistles from the land. No overtures.
No warnings. Only the brash noise
used to startle time into progressing.
The misspelled experiences. The old tongues
buffered by unyielding monuments
hands could never write or, in a definite image,