In my wallet there's English change nestling with Krona, Canadian dollars, US dimes, and apparently they're all mine somehow. I'm spent.

There's nothing English about roses (9 hours in Iceland)

Blue Lagoon, Grindavík, Iceland

And with skin lightly licked by North American rays I feel less. atypical. but still. I don't quite rub beige as maybe I did. once.
People with bad teeth smile less here.
And talk less under starched mustache.
But a jovial man with crooked mouth bumbles me through 'security'.
The words 'pip pip' hang unsaid from the corner of his English breath.

Keflavík, Iceland

I've been back three days.

Slipped like soap through a land of absolute barren beauty.
There's just something. about Iceland.
the tumble of solitary bird song through branchless woven wind
there were no trees in this ash soil
but heath like Cathy's
a blanket
moss - the warp
lilac nootka - the weft
how did you know my favourite flowers were lupins?
braided wild to roadside
you planted volcano crags, a devonshire moor fished from overseas
for me
and so
silica and sulpha laced I clothe my hard feet
lava flown spring water pools between toe and nail
lapping soft the cracking rhino weathered balls, the elephant skin heels
sucking solid ankle edge to supple curve
slip
    tuck
                     nudge
                             lift
car
    ess

the rain lost in my waterfallen hair
dancing through already lagoon lacquered eyelashes
my body slick with volcanic saliva
bones soothed.

Alone
at 8am
this is the only way to lay
over
and take
stock
before edging out with the tide

Blue Lagoon, Grindavík, Iceland

my 9 hours in Iceland were not nearly enough.
but bleached me ready
There's nothing roses about English

(There will be breath left for The Mission, The Capitol Building, The Desert, The City, The Final Call, The Falls. I promise. If anyone is still herear)