The Ark

It is night in the zoo of the universe. Stars lurk
behind soft mountains and the moon dips
under water. The dreams are getting to work.

He hooks his fingers into her waistband. She slips
towards him and raises her left knee to cover
his right thigh. Her finger rests on his lips,

then moves down to his neck. He rolls her over
and traces her spine with his chin. Her head
is turned on its side as she feels him hover

above her. Her right arm is off the bed,
touching the floor. Night giggles up its sleeve.
His teeth close as if on fresh baked bread.

And then she mounts him. They begin to heave
against the tide. They are ploughing through
the waves of the sheets, steady, purposive

voyagers. Out in the field a distraught ewe
calls to her lambs. An owl hoots in the mist.
It is stormy. They are the ship's crew.

Now he's on top, his fingers round her wrist.
She strains to kiss them. The cat in the car park
leaps from bonnet to bonnet. They want to twist

round so he's behind. It takes a sudden jerk -
and there they are. Her breasts hang below her
like any creature's, in the enormous ark

they both occupy. The beasts are beginning to stir
in the hold. She plays him like a piper.
The world is pain and stars in a cradle of fur.

The rainforests of Brazil are made of tissue-paper
that rustles in her head. He is whale blubber
in the Atlantic, a well fed grouper.

From An English Apocalypse, 2001