Conflagration of postal codes
A conflagration of postal codes
mingle, covert adaptations, till we no longer
recognize the grid we claim as original—
these postal codes reinvent themselves
with new inhabitants,
to the letter writer’s consternation,
bodily facts reduced to a historic map.
But to augur the grid
according to flight of birds—
what largess!— to choose the right
position, innately oriented east,
in new familiar patterns, paths first laid
for nascent kings, and built in mirrored layers,
postions kept useful, sacred;
vaulted feet above the carillon, above
cobble, above the headland
where codes were born, now free to walk the maplines
of familiar kingdoms.
Otherwise, the people’s address was such
there was no street, only locus
and a horizon view alive,
dripped with ceremonial voices.
It was undersides of trees convinced them
the sky is holy—thus, the top room
to forecast eclipse, encase
an interior god who reclines within the old
structure, smiling a waiting smile, he knows
from correspondence with silence
the true orientation.
But nothing solves the immediate
mess of lusty postal codes, that correspond
as a way to mess with the surface, a meaningless grid—
talk muddles; have the roots
changed their minds? The childhood
code once memorized, now reinvents itself?
Is the original code (as we claimed it)
preserved down there,
in the dark, in the root,
or did the new people remove it?
as if removing the root renegs
on past prayers made to tree-lined
sky and stars, on a previous code!