a tinge distils to cerulean,
lenses glanced light.
scraped surface blows
over rock
by the circumpolar.
I dream of night
when stars become flowers,
vines sprout
and reach for powder.
the axis of the poles
like a machine, hums
the magnetic field
into being.
antarctica has drawn
strings out of me.
the waxed plain,
an impossible longing
to know the centre.
