My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire: 
pale hand gripping my pen. 
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions, 
letting nine become ten. 
Two pink doves strut the shingles 
picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved 
for you dear. And I wish you were here 
on this postcard day. 

Focus on the fine indeterminate line 
where the sky meets the sea. 
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd 
freely flow out of me. 
Well, I may be a hostage to summer 
but I'm a hostage, not a slave. 
on this postcard day. 

Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean 
tide 
swim madly with spice from the orient 
on a mystery watery carpet ride. 
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around; 
blows them back out of mind. 

My eyes are white circles staring down past the point 
of my restless pen. 
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth 
call my name again. 
Two brown legs don't make a summer. 
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away. 
Well, my dear, I wish you were here 
on this postcard day.