Outside Keflavik

The sun wakes up
but it never really set – just swallowed
into a sky filled with porcelain curves,
broken egg shell blues, yellows,
smashed aubergine purples,
free.
Waking up inside a tent
toes and nose still not conquered
into warmth by sleep
in a field, waving weary,
to a landscape filled with summer snow, not sand,
this strange place that has been
designate: home.
The piece of paper, taped
into the inside of my
issued rucksack.
I have a parka with a furry collar, too.
I hardly understand these items,
but I carry them everywhere
in front of my body
like I’m carrying a refrigerator
or a shield.
Too heavy.