Poetry

“Moorings” by Ruth Padel.

Darkness. For the first time you hear
The body that has made itself core
Of the universe (or anyway, you reckon now,
Or yours), slacken its guy-ropes for sleep

As if mile-deep water
Were slap-settling round you in a lake
Whose speedboat carnivals, much as you adored
The show they made, have gone.

It’s a website of alien muscles
Losing their hair-trigger touch on a soul
Blowing Christ knows where. This is all
New. But you say

(To him, to yourself),
I’ll follow, if you give the sign.

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