Icelandic Sun

Shavings from glass I traced a
screwdriver across glittering in
the sill of a peeling windowsill.
Rainbows play on the paint.

A sheet of glass, covered in etches
and now rendered entirely useless
except to obscure visions on the other side.
The brittle curtain lies dormant on the floor.

Somehow I know the colors are
all that I needed from this seemingly
deranged project I made for myself.
If only the sun could remain forever.

I hear wind chimes, and I see golden waves
stretching into an endless horizon.
The wind whips my clothing around as if
I were covered with miniature flags.

I see panels hanging in the air ahead
and they are all opaque glass squares.
I add the ruined window to the collection
and it helps to obscure this panorama.

So many paths extend from my hairs.
My rusty colored top twists in the breeze.
This Icelandic sun paradise is fleeting.
The sun speeds to the Earth and night swallows me.

The bits of glass hurt if squeezed too tightly,
but I am not foolish enough to allow them
into my body; rainbows mingle not with viscera.
I decide to start recording my dreams.