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I suppose my mother’s gesticulations from the women’s gallery

A B-grade movie drumbeat of doors and panes,

The weatherboards built years earlier across the street were ex-Army:

If from the emptiness of space we’re surprised to hear

But no-one these days goes in much for constructing religions:

Mothers never fare well in these stories:

She comes to his office in such despair at the end

blue- and gold-fringed morning cloud sees her off

Galileo climbed to the top of the tower from where he addressed his students

How discreetly birds must die elsewhere!

Just there on the rise, before the road descends

Over familiar suburbs, the mountain’s blue silhouette

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