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At first, I thought it was me
somehow reflected
in faraway silhouette
an atmospheric affectation
a dark gas geyser

then, it waved

there is not much to do here
each day being the same as the last
for ten years, more

I get up, wash, eat
walk to the edge
of the crevasse, and sit
and think

the only movement
until recently
has been the light
split by the glacier
into hazy dancing rainbows

now, there is the shape
four limbs, a torso, a head
humanoid, but not
necessarily human

we are not so far apart, but
the crevasse is deep
nearly three miles down
according to my scanners

to walk around it
would take months, and I
do not have the provisions
nor the stamina
old as I am

most days, he is there
he waves, I wave
he waves, I wave
I have discovered
that I am lonely
when he is not there, and
that I am lonely
when he is

Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland, with his wife, Eimear, and daughter, Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and four poetry collections. Winner of the Anthony Cronin Poetry Award and twice winner of Irish Times’ New Irish Writing, his numerous publication credits include Poetry Ireland Review and Westerly.
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13 May 2024

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