It's where I go when I zone
out, entranced, the entrance to ozone

blue, that Orphic note, the Om
of snow on snow, zinc-white

Zen hole in the inkless
oval of the O or zero.

It’s the helium halo around 
the moon, the echoing O, O, O, 

Rimbaud’s omega 
of the hallowed vowel, 

the ohm of the dial tone, 
the Zenith screen 

dissolving into fields of white
noise and burning snow.

It’s the osmosis of light
on Sugimoto’s photographs of fog 

taken morning, afternoon and night
over the Ligurian sea,

opaque layers of vapor and mist
exposed on cibachrome.

It’s the gesso-white canvas 
no brush stroke disturbs,

the vanishing point where heaven
and earth converge

in the void of the universe,
in the holy word.