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TRANSATLANTIC
Carole Satyamurti

Then, somewhere over Greenland, the sun
made jewels of ice crystals on the window,
thistledown on its way to space.

See them as a string of brilliants;
bright syllables, splitting memory
into its component bitter-sweets.

Or think of them as innumerable
light particles streaking from me to you
four thousand fibre optic miles

this instant; impulses, unbroken
but modulated now into sound -
my voice, this message