I can coax out of the deep freeze of memory
boutique Hotel Búðir, a cove with large rocks, 

bobs of seaweed, gulls crying happily
above the Icelandic coast, black church glazed 

by midnight sun, a pier from which one 
could stand and look out on an indifferent sea,

feel the wind blowing in from America, traces 
of felled redwood, modified wheat, city exhaust, 

salt from trolling nets hung up 
after a bust season now tattered by rot,

self subsumed in the present unfamiliar moment, 
a glacier suspended on a mountain side,

as if all clocks had agreed 
to stop ruining everything.