Flying Across the International Date Line

There is no moment
when the pilot comes
on the intercom to announce
that we have crossed over
into the next day,
and in this Northern route,
running with the sun,
the world outside
remains in a state of permanent twilight.

Below me are the Kodiak Islands
that I dreamed of as a child
with their giant bears
doing battle with Japanese soldiers
still stalking the woods
because no one ever bothered
to tell them that the war with America
ended long ago,
or maybe it's Kolyma
at the far edge of Russia
with its Road of Bones
and the families exiled for their passions.

Any of that could lie beneath
or perhaps just the wide and empty Bering Sea,
but clouds sit between me
and the dreams of that boy I once was.
Up here is a world
where no firm time exists,
nor date, nor place,
only the memory of childhood abstractions
where I would imagine myself
into a cold world of possibility.