The Black Balloon by Gordon Moyer
Go, chase the black balloon,
hazard the fields of snow, the miles of tundra;
follow it into the arctic void, drift with it through icy wastes,
never let yourself grow weary.
Stretch out your arms; call, call after it.
If you should stumble, fall, and break your leg—sleep:
Close your eyes from too much white
and watch the black balloon sail on,
becoming a fleck of dust in your blue mind.
Wake; now look behind you. You have left
pieces of yourself in a twisting caravan of bones.
Why for a black balloon?
There is no more north.
Overhead the black balloon fixes itself to the sky
and becomes the shadow of north,
the dark companion of the pole star.