I use charts, dividers and a compass
split horizons and trace the hidden channel
that runs through core, crust, rock:
above it the sun is hooking clouds,
blanketing them. It narrows, releases a spit of light
that shoots from the centre.
I tug the underside of rays, push a cleat between
us and the stars so we don’t rattle in our hold -
weave a mattress from streaks of cirrus
that’s only fit for lovers. We sleep
with these illusions above our bed giving no credit
to the night-time; its arena cannot contain us.
We haul ourselves through the sky’s loose skin:
our bodies road maps, navigational points,
sprawled like a patchwork of cotton and tiny loops.
From Snow Child, Pindrop Press