Sport 7: Winter 1991
Postcard
Postcard
A sky the texture of peaches
mixes itself like paint.
I try to craft a thing as big
as a matchbox, as explicit.
Night snaps itself together.
Your visit is a postcard
from a distant, brilliant room
overlooking musical lawns.
I mark them down,
the things which once contained us;
the flower stall, flute and accordion,
the drizzle in which
we missed our departing selves.