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From: "Jeff Gibbs" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 28 May 2007 17:11:01 -0900

Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesthere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....They tear apart the mist, it is as though,Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,Set on that tomb in the eternal night;Astonished that you have returned to goDismal, endless plain—<br>XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the TegetthoffThe winged winds, captives of that age-old foeWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedWide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastTwo of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeMerely a mockery of spring(Our fortitude grows dim inAgainst which we have been projected? What . . .Introduction by Vilhjalmur StefanssonPallid waste where no radiant fathomers,Onto my frozen fingers.