Nicholas Cobic

The Dream of the Antarctica

Thin, safety pinned light
Is knitting spider-web on the wall.
The swarm of drops clumsily wobbles on the window;
A mysterious sound jumps on springs.

This night, I have ordered the search
After the fugitive word
Torn away from the white continent.

I recall the first shipwreck of Shakleton
Whose ears are sharpened by barking
And whose cabin looks like
Non-directed grammar school.
All around, pseudonyms spilled in vain
And the fish scale of multi-lunar daylight.

Sleep tight crew,
You shall need the dream!

His men
Circumcise ice for fishing,
Then open up the lid of frozen manhole.
From there, Ernest takes out the hollow
Like a pile of gnawed success wishes
And with the crinkled cheek
He mumbles:
What is the use of this?

The chattering of the ships floorboards
Encouraged me too to open my eyes.
My rectangle Antarctica
Spilled in front of me.
I lift up the pen - that mast of my ship
And loudly I mumble:
What is the use of this?


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