Edward Wilson, 1911
There is distance down. A sounding. As the anchor falls. There is distance from
The last landmark. New Zealand or Cape Town. To the defunct hut of last year's party.
To the man next to me. From the edges of my sleeping bag. There is longitude.
There is temperature and ice crystals. But plus whatever else to measure and notate
There's God and may he be pleased. With me and my body. So fit and full of cocoa.
Spent forenoon drawing dolphins. The afternoon in skiing. The Owner and I
Hiked up to the point. To discuss the men and how we must not lose them. Or ponies.
Or the dog I found. Thin and covered in seal blood. Three months later. Bad for the seals.
And from the moon. Much closer in the winter. Which is to say summer for all you
Dear people. Back home whose light makes a cross. Is a pattern of expanding.
Circles which make way for the Aurora. Usually a lemon yellow. A kind of sun
Replacement. Though seal fat for breakfast makes us all shine bright enough.
The possibly amazing future home of me & J
The gnats protect my tattoo pigment.
I trust your peeling city studio.
The end of the fold-out bed falls off.
What is annual elsewhere is perennial here.
We came all day long to be here.
We are cultivating radish and yellow lupine.
The past is in coffee grounds and eggshells
And moves inexorably towards the genuine self.