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This poem is taken from PN Review 106, Volume 22 Number 2, November - December 1995.

Hoosh Bill Manhire

Highest, driest, coldest, windiest
continent, doubling its size in winter:
Emily's gone to Antarctica.

All that red hair on the ice!


Blue eyes, summer deep field
at Granite Harbour, an orange tent
between Asgard and Olympus

while I stand in the library, lost
between Acquisitions and Closed Reserve
and try to look after her


into the endless November light
where the mist
touches Discovery, touches

Terror, and the glaciers calve and thunder,
melt-water of whatever was freezing here
a million years before Christ

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