The bronze traveller is feeling
at the top of the world
a lake, slim and all tinctures following
azure to cobalt to snot. It makes a vault the painted
monarchies, Lord Brown or Sir Sam Jonah, emperors of the cryosphere
their hydraulic gesture spanning aeons, their hands shot blue flame.
One wears a cape of phytoplankton blooms
green up greedy consumers surveyed depths off Peterhead, off Drax.
Having arrived here by tanker
no other remedy but the cheerful fantastic technofix:
Martian ships lofting aerosols,
gauzy microbubbles to necklace shores.
Glass beads (oh look so great) wear away a trillion ice creams
colonies of moss piglets recruited to eat air.
From space whose fears are too modest, the risks outgassing
from unscannable concrete small haptic theories of labour
all the models are insincerely gentle; air bubbles
ziplocked in ice pop alerts for future prosody.
400 ppm news invention, photopheresis
loosens the energies contained in generations
of stupid hungry death
into a strangulated hernia hung on Greenland,
court processes also to the climate forcings required
to blast open Siberian history with a 50 gigaton
methane pulse, and bring the extinct back to life
and extremophiles to the throne. The sea eats iron-rich dust
as basal melt brings intimacy to Harvard, pan handle, Dhaka.
The Arctic giants canonize Frobisher, plant
jerries and lay claim to the garrisons of the Northern
Sea Route with their nodding stills:
these are the contours of glacial minimum, the slim lake
acquires depth and prudish amory, artists and others such as
voting stockers need to cool down / locked in crystal lattices
where the benthic unconscious thrives on sinking expectations,
and especially on the heaviness of dead things.
The ice hosts a methane party still formation.
In time its fake gabion dissolves.
What you see into boundless poetic crystal
liberates its prisoners, who disperse immediately
into the humid pulsing air
and hunt us and blind us and drive us backward
to the absolute futuristic sea.
1 March 2015