Empedocles at Geysir
In Iceland, hot springs are so pervasive,
Many workers plunge into them at lunchtime
With their colleagues. Great Geysir is inland
On a narrow road. There, strong winds keep
Blustering. Keep children in the car.
There I read that nineteenth century tourists
Threw rocks down its well, hoping to see
The waterspout blast the rocks high skyward
When it erupts, soars. Their rocks block Geysir
– or fewer strong earthquakes calm it for now.
As I stare down into the rock-rimmed ruin,
At the entombed, crushed waste of a wonder,
Sudden gusting winds shove and propel me
Teetering, all but throw me, fast, off the
Cliff of earth’s charred, hardened crust, down, down.