The pining for the fjords is done in discrete
Heal hiccups on the walk to the gift shop
Of memory’s white onion –
Alas, the most misunderstood faction
Of tears is the trail they leave
As they pool upon the beltway
And penetrate into the soul, which is illusive.
They are being mimicked by birds,
And one can hear the angel’s wings
Popping under the pressure of the sea.
The fjords narrow in that brilliant reflection
Like the pupil of a drugged wombat,
And we must pine after them as we shimmy
Toward the ultimate compression
Of a picture book’s uncorrected proof.