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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:

When we found our way back to what used to be our home

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

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

Above trees I can see through the kitchen window

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

The dreamtower lifts itself towards a night sky

How discreetly birds must die elsewhere!

Just there on the rise, before the road descends

Over familiar suburbs, the mountain’s blue silhouette

In her wide-open sanctuary

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