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Poetry
Crossing the Equator (First Time Southward)
To hold the earth on a stick.
To fly down across the line
where two skies end and begin.
This is not the meeting of worlds.
This is not the dissolution of edges.
But when you sail, horizontal on a sea of shining green,
even at night, it is as if you sail through infinite hills
of dream-dark hair reflecting glinting fires:
starlight droplets on an inky mind
not longing for beads of morning to fall,
and when your eyes turn to the greater glory above,
to virgin sky, unconquered, unmoved,
when you are unmindful of no northern star,
Then the ancient, knowing fires land on virgin destiny:
your eyes, now the swirling sea