He writes on a wall knowing
a ghost will erase his words.
He kisses the wall.
He is exiled in Iceland.
He is followed by a journalist.
He says poetry transforms
dust into a rose. He says sometimes
he doesn’t write for months
and he feels nervous.
He sticks his arm into snow and
shows the camera how deep.
He says “Everyone can be Christ
here,” and points to frozen water.
“Where is a wall?” he asks.
A couple in scarves say
“If you use chalk, you can
write anywhere. It’s up to you
to find your own wall.”
He says his notebook is an empty
suitcase he fills as he walks.
He leans over a poem and works with
a translator on the phrase “I have.”