travelers

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.