THE POST-OFFICE IS AN OPEN FLOWER

Our separate lives hold between them
A weeping floodplain
Named after our language

The post-office in your valley opens
A frail magnolia
Faithful to the sun

Shaking, scattering promises and pleas
Like some close fragrance
Soft and certain

Seven hundred rivers away mailboxes
In my heaving town stay shut
Against light and letters

Glinting streets and shops
Nightly retch a tart brew
Reminders of you

Neighbors’ lives, homespun
Framed by lit windows
Far away