How might I go nearer our
likeness? A choir quieted, slow-
stretched skin, these insatiable solo solos—
A girl’s got some plaster flowers
to trade, but men coerce the cost
of things. Only in things
an arrival. We hate the stains; they dye
me just enough to save you. Pilot our
insides out, equal in amplitude.
Under any comatose canopy
we shall be looked after,
after all that comes.
All these months are mine. I
never bought the etched illusions
of naked crystal: a line flows
through you; a comet follows,
unfolding as nothing. Spiral
of storm, I am right along in it—
The saints’ lives mirror our
likeness: divine! Divine a flat
stone, some girl skipped, sinking—
Trail out of love, fish out of laughter,
daughter. Am I aching to hold this mirror
up for you? My flood daughter, all now
sing for you. Defuse our thoughts
with language, so gods, men, girls go—
It ain’t a coma, boys, go home.
You flew through moons, eyes, miles.
These lumps are mine but gone now
from me. Close the chains—all the world
I fold now, safe that I have read into its mind.
The next port meets these skies
undeniably empty: heart, flower,
now the father—
a miracle of doubt
in falling. A ghostyard of things not
like you, after you’re gone—that slow
Homophonic translation of the
song "flugufrelsarinn" by Sigur Rós.