You only had to leave and your bedroom
has rolled out into space
in a swirl of branches where the full moon
presses its pale face to the glass.
There’s a pool of milk under the sill.
I’m paddling in white blood
that dries without a trace. A trail
leads from the curtain to the made bed
where something of you still lies
looking up at these posters – a man on his knees
slick as a seal in his blue latex sheath;
a ripple of ochre desert; a gold-silk-trousered Puck
pinned in mid-leap with a message: Back
in forty minutes; the spinning earth.