you left me in Paris, with
perfume and the slight smiles of
a thousand paintings.
maybe it was because I cut away rolls
of undeveloped film; maybe it was
my smell, like chalk and soap together;
you said goodbye, and
i believed every word.
Poland, flat prairie, peaks
jump high and low, endless
abysses, Merry Christmas,
wish you were here;
and I have received many postcards
none of them
are from you.