Walking in Antarctica

 

Meat is the way. Flesh, don’t fail me now.

The suits, waiting in the lockers. We put them on to walk the ice, bright under the brilliant sky.

Exposed skin freezes without protection. Fuel turns to jelly. Metal behaves differently, too. This is  another world.

One becomes aware of warm breath, blood pumping. Dreams of branching tropical rivers, memories of bodies entwined. No, not here.

Here is cold as the space between the stars. Here, the rocks fall from the sky. We search for familiar patterns, ancient proteins embedded in dry rivers of stone.

Life, even here, set free.

 

 

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