the worst night coming the bloody dark
covers our traces fanning across the grid
worked out in the Ops Room section by section
any place my heart is gone any direction
beginning in the house and loosed off in mid
air in some canal or building site or park
the hinterlands behind are coded as we
slot together drum and lock and screw
over the downy skin of the child still
held against the light soft as a miracle
daring the stars and torches picking through
this one o’clock and two o’clock and three
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in