The latitude and longitude of my love—etc. etc.
You can’t map emptiness. Only affiliations.
I feel the words pulling at me like rope. To some anextension.
One day we will be trampled by the exodus, millions of lives
dragging their cities behind them, breaking windows on the
ice, leaving glass in the snow, tumbling into the ocean.
Skyscrapers as icebergs. Tenement houses as polar caps.
Something to stand on, to wave from to the saviors.
Who’re coming soon, you have to believe. The empty
landscape—white, silent, etc.—knows nothing less than
Dennis James Sweeney’s Antarctica poems have also appeared or are forthcoming in Birdfeast, Elsewhere, Gargoyle, Juked, Prelude, Requited, Salt Hill, and Greying Ghost Press‘s pamphlet series. He lives in Corvallis, Oregon.