I will never make it across
The gigantic blue field of your eye.
It’s massive glacier

That freezes me
Bone to brain.
Its gaping, blackened crater

Emitting iridescence in the dawn,
A still warm meteor.
It’s fantastic white wasteland

That stretches into the pink gaps
And black ridges.
It is itself a country

Where the languange is hauntingly strange,
The customs are barbaric
And the natives are

Anarchists,
Freedom fighters,
Seeders of a bloody revolution.

It’s monolithic brow where witches live
And cast their Shakesperian spells
Over many miles has long

Been raised in a parody
Of simple truths. It’s jarring
Subtle movements like a

Groaning continental plate
Create unmapped regions
The likes of which I have seldom seen.

Each having come as a surprise,
Being myself well-travelled;
Chic and worldly.

It is a place I have compulsion
To explore, but I will never
Make it to the other side.

1992