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Under ice / we breathe in shrunken sentences, / locked in / by the firn dome overhead / moving through our white sleep / like a clock’s hour hand.
By Jim LarkFebruary 1976The world becomes another / story. I see nothing so clearly / as myself, and that / smudged. The mirror I took / for a wife has run off / with my eyes.
By Sy SafranskyFebruary 1976Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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