One of the houses has a
Terracotta roof
Another, then a cluster
Jagging the horizon
Like a saw
This is no temple I think
This is no holy ground
Yet my memory of the place
Is captive somehow
Somehow
Still-budding entanglements,
A brother, a son,
Hold out against concrete reminders
Of how things have changed
I straighten my gaze
And turn on the radio
I've lost the undulating patchwork
That used to brick and tile the drive out
But no harm for now
My bearings, or sadnesses,
Are reclaimed
I'm beetling north among the baked grass
My family's fringe
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