Polar Explorer #2

Oh, terrible—silence over ice—

no panting dogs, no hissing runners

no footfall to break it. Just the crack

and groan of its own awful straining

rising up.

You warm your hands at the flame

that lifts you. The balloon’s silk

is a second sun, unsetting. You’re always in its noon,

directly underneath its rippling light.

When blizzards, no ground to fix

your boots to, just directionless swirl

and the compass’ doubtful arrow.

Who else has breathed air this clear, crystals of it

hardening briefly in your lungs? Who else has so brightly

risen above the dangerous landscape?

And when you find that you are losing height,

when the earth calls you down to its own slogging,

when it’s been decided that you’ve traveled long enough

as ghosts, silent and apart, you know

some disaster of hunger and cold awaits

           —your bones’ location to be a mystery for thirty years—

you know your limbs may no longer have the knack

of pulling, of recovery, of resistance, and you’re glad anyway

to be mortal again, and stumbling.