This Side of Gone

I live at my own latitude,
an arctic circle of the soul.
Where neither sun nor I
ever reach midheaven,
in the shadow of the pole.

Mine is the land of the noonday moon
and seeping horizon’s twilight tide.
Night a tunnel through to day
which I must see to the other side.

It’s a hypnogogic sea of dreams.
I grasp at passing bergs to float upon
But Titanics sinking feeling provides no purchase
With which to stay this side of gone.