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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.