The postcards arrived week after week
each one from a different state
 
and signed with a different name:
Ramona, Lady Jane, Angel, Miranda;
 
all of them written in your lazy scrawl
leaning to the right like trees in the wind
 
two burning eyes drawn above
my name written in red ink.
 
Later one night, I hear a noise
outside my window
 
as if someone rearranged
the furniture of the wind;
 
perhaps it is you
sharpening your dreams
 
or the ghost of lost words
preparing for your return.

Lately, I’ve passed by your house
although you don’t live there anymore;
the new owners never say hello
even when I wave and smile, 
flicking open my umbrella 
as if words were collected rain
and they would recognize me
from a distance of so many years.
 
The town where we grew up
looks smaller, the roads narrow
and spinning out like a spider’s tears
anchoring to the top of the hill
bordering the park near my old home,
and you, you are a bird
ambushed in my memory
unpacking your wings.