Arco, ID 2019 the desert submarine does not speakbut a sliver of daylight persistsbetween the sail and its concrete base the sail is all that remainsof the Hawkbill and it castsa deep shadow in which I stand to escape the sun; it seems a monolith awaitingworship...
We stopped at a hot pot called Guðrúnarlaug in Dalabyggð in Western Iceland. I can’t remember the time of day. In the summer months there were twenty-four hours of sunlight. The hot pot was a burning pool on a hilltop circled by stone. A tiny house for changing rested...
He loves me, a salty woman made of sobs with knobs and handles and spigots that bob and weave salt pebble wishes drips down my face — until no more tears dissolve and my lot of wife that has looked too late, too long — fades. He’s happy for a while to while away time...
