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They said space was the last frontier or else the frozen north was.
I knew, at once, they had never met you.
I guess, now,
the inside of the human body is no longer a mystery
and all the borderlands have been mapped.
The wilds: They've all been tamed.
They said nothing was left but space,
and the bottom of the ocean.
I knew, at once, they had never seen the sparking glimpses of barely-coasted galaxies living inside you,
that they would never be able to build space ships or submarines strong enough to come back from the glowing hot places in your chest
or lay the railways it would take to tame and colonize the craggy and endless mountainous landscape of your mind:
How would they penetrate the permafrost?
What man would ever be dumb, dedicated,
and pig-headed enough to trek the tundra on foot or hoof?
What man could ever brave you, you Dead Man's Pass?
You dangerous thing.
Who could ever map you under the clear and cold constellations,
under sharp white stars like perforations in the fabric of the black night?
Who could travel the frozen lakes as a midnight silhouette through the daytime darkness, unmitigated,
and not get washed away under the neon night, starving,
you uncatchable thing, you bigfoot, you unicorn, you myth, you legend,
you fathomless depth, you endless sky, you Aurora Borealis: