audio: Moorings
audio of D. R. Goodman's poem, Moorings

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D. R. Goodman



      Those things we’re moored to, like the gypsum sands
      of Alamogordo, shift within a day
      and leave us holding useless maps—the way
      still clear in one sense: foot must step, and hands
      swing forward toward the present, the demands
      of live, and onward. Landmarks slip away
      in drifts and dunes; surveyor’s marks decay;
      our lots and lines, our walls and massive stands
      of trees come down to stump and ash. What’s gone
      still trails us like a broken anchor line,
      heavy and weightless both, somehow—till one
      cold winter, we walk out before first light,
      glance up where trees should block the sky, and find
      the stars are spinning paths across the night.


Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2018 ▪ Runner-Up