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Fencing in Reykjavik

Behind the door the dogs are rhapsodizing,
out in the garden the crocuses, not

quite naked, are waving a little dainty lace. Last
autumn, at Hfravatn I was moving mildly

with water in my mouth. Remember when I waved
my arms around gathering air?

Then those days of mid-October snow that blanketed
our little evils—and how in hours, no minutes,

it simply blew off—reducing metaphysics
to an absurdity, and the dogs winding their windmill tails—

how the day connects to the next and how
everything comes to the surface

whether you produce a receipt or not.
The only thing between us can’t just be that odd sock—

O, the heartstrings of credit, all the renovations,
the hardwood flooring and sparkling bathroom taps,

everything playing in its machinery as someone’s pockets
are filling up. A nice picture, madam—a miniature exhibition,

listening to the knocking in my heart. Careful.
What gets in the ear may later never come out.

Is it me, or were we just spewing words?
If only we might have lived far from the marvels

of the inner city. We might have stepped
through that hole in the fence and sealed it right up.



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