Address
442
Between this address and where
I think it is, the ivy
Replenishes itself with roots in the air,
I live my dead father
And try to write my family on mud
Without betrayals into mere history
Or music instead of the spontaneous
Rituals of light in knots of pulsing jewels
Through the network of earth black nerve
To carry the history and music to come,
The divination bowl, a woman
At a loom, weaving at the root,
Yet also at a stem like this address,
Her butterfly coloured cloth to wrap
Wounds in the world, her children, and her man,
Healing herself and them with her body
And abstract designs she names.
Page(s) 7
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