Skúlagata 42

diffused light, muffled voices from the balcony above. airplane. bells. the whir of a tired HP laptop. tour bus. bag of bottles, shift.

this fort hangs from the room’s four corners like a heavy-bellied web. or a fresh, fleshy petal lodged in the neck of a vase. the droop cups empty space, the ceiling, apartments 402, 502 and 602 with its vaulted reach into sea clouds, patch of blue–the night stars waiting out these last few long-lit days. breadth of august, spectral, the first rogue notes of a relentless minor suite.

yesterday I saw the moon.