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Ebony ship asail for the North Pole now death turns up in the shape of a bay that’s circular and glacial, without penguins, without seals, without bears. I know the agony of a ship caught in ice floes, I know the cold death rattle and the pharaonic death of arctic and antarctic explorers, with their red and green angels and scurvy and skin burned by the cold. From a European capital, a newspaper carried off by a south wind climbs swiftly toward the Pole all the while expanding and its two sheets are great funereal wings. |
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