Douglas Mawson

In memory of Douglas Mawson

Blizzard tonight
storms search the tent
I gag at the sight
of my bare feet -
their soles come off

Sick fascination
with my own raw flesh
think of bacon rashers -
is that what I'm made of?

I salivate
chewing this pencil.
You see, my love,
it is too cold to write.

There, on your side,
life goes on.
If you look out the window
there may be snow-the poetic kind

My dead friend whispers
"Douglas, move!"

Blizzard tonight,
but tomorrow I'll walk
on these feet, no longer mine,
held together with
dirty cloth and lanoline

I disintegrate;
It is too cold to think
about ending all this here
in the snow

Ship's out there
they'll look for me -
I just know.