he looked like iceland

he looked like iceland,
with those white lips of his,
those white teeth of his,
that white smile.

he felt a bit like iceland, too,
walking on the snow like the last man on earth,
picking on the stray anchovites that gladed past us,
by the shore,
snorting at the constellations.

He was like iceland because he never left footprints and he was so far away,
almost like the last standard of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge,
unfathomable, solemn,
circumpolar.

He was like iceland because he left my hands cold, and there was always a folk song whispering around him,
like he never did anything but speak in ancestral riddles.

But he looked the most like Iceland when I told him it was time for me to go back,
because he smiled, white with frostbite,
and whispered in my ear he had survived many winters.