To my Aurora Borealis

 

In life, we are playing with dangerous games: you, the witness

of the visiting vatnajökull now blushing pink in the atom sky

with the bright comedy of Lucifer fooling the stars,

razorbills, and I, making a cryogenic favour to the moonless

nights, to the mountain echoes following the murmur

of tourists caught in the arctic splash of water balloons

and whispering endless cold, happen to see the world

in your eyes—spinning, spinning with the silence of earth.

There I seek the image, the northern face, Europa-cheeked,

slowly melting away like shreds of memory filling

the landscapes, carousel hills, the dawn—all these accidents

we call remembrances of love. Speaking of which, the only

thing that matters is to spread the ashes of the colour

across the strange horizons charioting above us, realizing

the force of nature to be like hoppíppolla magic. We take

shelter in our celestial dome, where I see you shush

the spectacle and stand still as an image, a celestial sight