Conflagration of postal codes

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!



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