Clouds pull
themselves thin
I peer through them
smooth out the map
on my knees
rumpled
fields below
tumblings    quiltings
greens tans blues 
earth tilting
a cathedral spire
pokes upward
ancestors buried there
horizon
slopes again
to angle opposite
stomach drops
feels the sinking
altitude
descending to
my map

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16 Renford Road (four)
Page 11