Sometimes I paint, untranslatable words

Rokrassgat (Icelandic) a notoriously windy place.


Perhaps all that matters

is if where you are standing

there is light, at your shoulder–

your shadow long enough

to reach me, here

where shadows are rare; there

is so little that keeps the sky

from the ground.

Here, where the fields burn

and every building looks like

all it would take

is one strong wind

to blow it down.




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