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. 

And I'm clear that I wish you were here 

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.