Antarctica

A poem

Close your eyes

And read to me

So my mind may see

Behind a blank lucidity of

A thousand stares, that you’re

Not really there.

Here we come to

Sunday morn, my

Antarctica, staring off

Through the Sun to

Convince us both our time

Is done.

But then there’s eternity,

And the unrequited fruitfulness

Of longing, that burns

Desire into a rage

And melts lust, wistfully,

Right off the page.