In Longyearbyen,

the arctic air freezes

like a webpage.

The wind buffers

ones and zeroes –

twenty degrees below

feels colder in binary.

When summer finally

loads, the internet thaws

tourism ads insidious

as viruses. They replicate

the same ill-researched fact:

it’s illegal to die here.

Come experience death-

defying chills. The law

nullifies the polar opposite

of spontaneous combustion,

and bears are served

restraining orders.

At the height of flu season,

hike mountains in the nude.

Lean over the town

like a microscope

and observe homes

painted with phlegm,

plasma and platelets

spreading across

petri dish glaciers.

Visit the graveyard –

sorry, the seed vault –

where seven miners

were planted in 1918.

From their oesophagi,

defrost chestnuts

that resemble Spanish

influenza. Reindeer

stomachs sprout

grasses and snow

pea-shaped anthrax.

Don’t worry,

it’s not contagious

unless you touch

the melting permafrost

of your screen’s liquid

crystal display.