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
since, but 
none of them
are from you. 


cuileann said...

you have your own voice, and that cannot be bought.

Beth Kephart said...

I love (and believe it's true) what Cuileann says here.

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)