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.