Evening tightens. Something is thumping
somewhere westwards over the hill.
Smear turns to sneer, the Thames flows
under its flamethrowers, the night-
flying children leave their towers;
a cat runs across the road as if it
knows me, rubs itself on my shin—perhaps
I do know it. Eye is the pipe through
which world flows into us. Look up
to see Telstar in tenseless
orbit, we stalkers, we have stalks, pulse weak
and accelerated like that of a wealth
manager stepping into un-air-
conditioned air. He knows the currency
that passes us across the ferry.
One step from the moon, one stone’s throw home.
Reach the irreducible domed air.