(dream) I am on a mid-sized fishing boat, off sailing for several days. For convenience' sake, I boarded the boat to go somewhere, but I've forgotten the original destination. I notice that we are sailing in the Antarctic Ocean. I think, good heavens, we've come to a hell of a place, but I can't just sit back and enjoy the ride. The boat has no ice breaking equipment. The crew has never come to these waters before, and apparently cannot hypothesize being stuck in ice. I am terrified. "You have no ice breaking equipment and you've come to this place! What are you going to do if we get stuck in the ice? We might all die! Turn around immediately!" Amidst the back and forth, news comes over the wireless: there is a gathering of poets at the South Pole. Since I've come this far, I'd like to go over to the South Pole and check it out. When I reach the South Pole, I find that this gathering of poets is the World Poets Conference/South Pole Tournament. (There's such a thing?) Not many people have arrived yet. The North Pole poets are wearing furs and burning icebergs in a cave-like place to get warm. Perhaps they'll let me also warm myself together with them. Meanwhile, poets from all sorts of places begin to gather, and the troubles unique to the South Pole are frequent. (The end.)