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Postcard Day
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My eyes are wide circles above cheek bones on fire:
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pale hand gripping my pen.
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Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
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letting nine become ten.
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Two pink doves strut the shingles
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picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
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for you dear. And I wish you were here
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on this postcard day.
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Focus on the fine indeterminate line
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where the sky meets the sea.
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Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
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freely flow out of me.
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Oh, I may be a hostage to summer
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but I'm a hostage, not a slave.
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And I'm clear that I wish you were here
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on this postcard day.
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Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide
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swim madly with spice from the orient
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on a mystery watery carpet ride.
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But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
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blows them back out of mind.
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My eyes are wide circles staring down past the point
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of my restless pen.
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While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth,
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call my name again.
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Two brown legs don't make a summer.
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But two brown arms couldn't keep me away.
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Well, my dear, I wish you were here
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on this postcard day.
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Postcard Day
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Jethro Tull |