Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingSet on that tomb in the eternal night;Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingAstonished that you have returned to goWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushAway from their profundity of surface.XX. To the Polewill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Is it almost honey, is it snow?And off the white smoke swimsThe surge of swirling wind definesFrom which, thanks to symmetry,This third day of our January thaw,Is the moon to growXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionThe purest form is always the oneAnd half-starved foxes shake and pawThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,
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