Postcards
They arrive at night
When the dawn is near
Knock but once at my door
Wrapped in velvet and some daisies
They tingle my feet
And weave the platonic glories
Lost in my hands
They are lines drawn
From
The red temples of Kathmandu
To the blue sky of the Arabian desert
I wait for them
To hold those invisble letters once in my hand
The scribbled cards are souvenirs by a stranger
Pictures and land marks
Here in stack
I place them together
For a happy picture
But all of a sudden
They abandon me
And turn to sand...
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