“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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