The Zone

of heaven
for the season of blue glass.

They told me
that when I got here
I would step inside the iceberg
hanging in the sky above the land
it had once passed over,
two co-ordinates
far apart in time
returned to the locus
where they intersected.

An impossible
configuration.

A shaft in the ice
but no sense of direction
or of gravity. Long ago now.

I could stand
under a tree
and look up
then turn
and fall
backwards
onto the ice above,
to drop like a human stalactite,
but feel
no mass,
no rush
of blood.

The Zone

On arrival, I would understand.
I would know where they had been.
Only once you have seen it, they assured me,
would you know that which may never be explained
to one who does not know.
Parapsychogeology.
A hymn of landscape jazz.
A clash of conditions,
a disregard for the laws of —
If you break the laws
of physics here,
you get a suspended —

time off for good

time off for

time off

time

t

ime calved off the iceberg.

That is
what I saw
when I came here.

That is what I found.

That is
what I will find
when I come here.

That is what will find me.

The Zone

I went there
tomorrow. I will go there
yesterday. Has anybody
found him?
I need to tell him what I am seeing will see are you getting this down?

A painted
backdrop to a forest.
The sky turns to ice
calving off the glacier
of time.

The boom breaks
the air
the
clearing of
a supersonic throat

the start
of the race
to the end

the closing
of an eyelid

the opening