ÓINSIGH
from the die-hard fans
With the clothes just shook on him, Jón, in some Hvítárnes
his good eye startled as if by what sunlight there might rise
it looks still early morning, and bleak cold, one for jumpers on
in Iceland or wherever. It is our eyes that look through his, óin
sigh, and back at us again, and we see ourselves in the daybreak mirror
we’ve become with him, each day to wake, face the indefinable terror
of clouds risen. He’s yet to collect himself in von, or words,
engender something lava hot in us to heat the innards.
Worlds fall apart in the vast fanlands. One more time
those careful esker stones we’d raise the battering ram
sees to them. Dreams fall in on people. He ransacks himself for us
across the global fields of Heima. Chilling out in Portlaoise,
walkabout at Snaefell, Stradbally, Vosslands east of Perth
he is our god, he walks upon the earth
