[Elizabeth Bishop, 1951]
see you in this dining-room-saloon,
a scotch-and-soda tilting in your fist;
you stand one-legged, heronwise, then list
against the bar. The freighter's small. At noon
our sad young missionary will appear
with wife and sons.... Far south, beyond Brazil,
below the cold convergence, where frazil,
floebergs, and breccia - sea ice and sheer
white mists well up like Antarctic tears,
I sometimes think would be the place to go.
But your thin face particulates to snow;
you're still in Europe, will be all next year.
I worry how too well we play at ghosts.
We disembark tomorrow at Santos."