The coordinates of my heartland
are north west. Egalitarian
rights of way about a city square,
Manchester Central Library in the round,
sundial shadows from its portico,
limestone columns to lean on and meet by,
sunlight rising through its windows on
righteous and unrighteous in the carrels.
Or Seattle’s open sculpture garden,
where the tilted planes of lawn and footpath
slalom from pavilion to shoreline,
and pairs of friendly seats attend together
the effect of wind on open water
and a holy mountain in the haze.