Mother of Earth, conceive the art of home,
give birth to jellyfish, the start of home.
My drawings screw the seeds to root and grow
to green, the frame of every part of home.
Didn’t she sex the trees from outer space?
Wasn’t blue-black my counterpart of home?
The miles I travel hard until my head
is antlered, both the doe and hart of home.
I have this reaching after flight, this dress
that doesn’t fit, fast birds, my heart of home.
Dismiss my poverty and build for me
a golden house to hang the art of home.
She steers the moon, the clouds that lift and roll
the chariot of time, the chart of home.
Marvel of whales, of mythic story-telling,
of seas that never drift apart, of home.