For Alex Culley and Chris Schvarcz
Palmer Station laboratory, Antarctica
It could be a map of the sky—
This slide we bend to while the real thing
Stretches its endless daylit self above—blazing
With ray-shot heads explosive
As novas, charismatic as any heavenly body
Charted in singular dimensions, traceries
Laid still for the eye, laid out in segments
And floral clusters, outlining swords
And girdles fit for Amazon waists, bottles
Brimming gold, fragile parachutes blowing open
And waiting to be named, to be assigned
That kind of meaning. As if
A name made any difference. It could be
A map of the future then, on which signs loom
To be read across time, through which
Each season will trail stories we must enact,
Flashing urgent as comets’ tails, ushering in
Another brilliant idea before which
We are helpless. Fated, dazzled, all this bright-
Long day, I gazed at the horizon,
Receding distance made of stone, water,
Vivid ice and sky. Light and wind burned
My eyes: nothing I could see
Turning to sting and ache, as if
A good scouring could open me. Beneath us,
The sea took long breaths, coming out
Of its dark age into summer’s
Star-struck bloom. Now, at the microscope,
How deep into time do you think we might see?
Backward, forward. Same
Old romancers, leaning over intricate
Puzzles, teasing meaning from figures
Flying aloof under steady, considering lights.