The Doctrine of Triangles
I look up at the tent’s converging walls, their apex
just out of arm’s reach. There is nothing to do
but watch the slow passage of the hunters’ moon
across my torso, watch my body become a map
to track us with beneath the first surveillance satellite
—we dreamers, we moving targets, we stars in transit,
we people of docksides, caravans and container parks.
Bleached skin peels with each passing cloud
as if time were scouring my shadows, my other selves,
from the world. Beneath the moon’s old gaze I am visible
and invisible, naked and meaningless, a thing
of surface only. What does a satellite know of sleep
or the comforts of darkness, of hope and home
and safety: the heart’s grand trigonometry.
Mathew is a London-based poet and writer. His work has been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Dust, Dawn Treader, Visual Verse and Nine Muses.