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Pursuitfrom Under PAR T T H R E E Often, in these blue meadows, I hear what passes for the bark ofseals And on August week ends the cold ofa personal ice age Comes up through my bare feet Which are trying to walk like a boy's again So that nothing on earth can have changed On the ground where I was raised. The dark grass here is like The pads ofmukluks going on and on Because I once burned kerosene to read Myselfnear the North Pole In the journal ofArctic explorers Found, years after death, preserved In a tent, part ofwhose canvas they had eaten Before the last entry. All over my father's land The seal holes sigh like an organ, And one entry carries more terror Than the blank page that signified death In 1912, on the icecap. It says that, under the ice, The killer whale darts and distorts, Cut down by the flawing glass To a weasel's shadow, And when, through his ceiling, he sees Buckdancer's Choice / 2 I 6 ...

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