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My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire: |
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Pale hand gripping my pen. |
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Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions, |
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Letting nine become ten. |
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Two pink doves strut the shingles |
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Picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved |
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For you dear. and I wish you were here |
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On this postcard day. |
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Focus on the fine indeterminate line |
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Where the sky meets the sea. |
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Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd |
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Freely flow out of me. |
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Well, I may be a hostage to summer |
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But I'm a hostage, not a slave. |
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And I'm clear that I wish you were here |
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On this postcard day. |
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Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide |
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Swim madly with spice from the orient |
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On a mystery watery carpet ride. |
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But with the sun going down, the wind goes around; |
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Blows them back out of mind. |
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My eyes are white circles staring down past the point |
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Of my restless pen. |
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While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth |
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Call my name again. |
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Two brown legs don't make a summer. |
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But two brown arms couldn't keep me away. |
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Well, my dear, I wish you were here |
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On this postcard day. |
