Air

Scudding in metal tubes,
breathing in
recycled breaths.
Spinning turnstiles,
merry go rounds, bladed
pinwheels. My hands cut open
by edged receipts, boarding passes,
desperate sketches from
forlorn children…
missed baseball games, concerts, birthdays and…
that soup of
missed connections, strange coin,
the stares of strangers. Uncomfortable
fat neighbor spilling over armrest,
we’re moaning
as the floor shakes, bumps,
spill coffees and teas

“Would you like
some Icelandic water sir? We call it ‘vatn’.
Here you go…

Sumir
loft væri gott, ekki satt
um núna.
Ég hata allt þetta endurunnið loftið.
Ég sagði Svana sem
hún ætti að hætta að deita
giftir menn. hún sagði
þeir eru minna flókið,
þeir ekki búast við hana að hringja.
Að þeir eru auðveldara
að takast á við.
Með störf okkar,
hún kann að vera rétt.

En, segi ég, hvað
um munaðarlaus sem við sáum á eyjunni?
Var einn af þeim sannarlega Astrolabe?
Sætur einn.
Ég hefði getað tekið að einn
fyrir súpu og teikningar.

Hann hafði auga sjómaður.

Hello, sir, would you like some Icelandic
water? We call it ‘vatn’. That’s
a sweet picture – are they yours?
Here you go…”

(Some nights at 3 am,
waking in fear alone,
thrashing about,
seeking you, any
cold comfort better than this…
lost
unbedded
nothing next to me but night
and the hum of air recycling)

I feel that layer of grime
creeping across my body,
my contacts
turning into cataracts.
Stiff necked, unkempt,
boxed in and never
quite asleep,
never
quite awake.

Facing out window after window,

I can see scudding clouds,
and below them
this world that will not end.