Black Sand

  Laugarvatn, Iceland

All these barns with their busted spidery
limbs strewn over the bunches of lupine
as horses tuck themselves into the faultline
of summer, asleep in unbridled grass.
I am driving under the drug of a glacier
becoming a river becoming a stream
and nothing here is staying, not even
the blemished plover, not even the ash.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.