These were written to postcards purchased in the village where we stayed, and so I don't have photos to post with them.
August 7, 2008
At dawn; tourists sleeping
off Cabernet and Frangelico
on marshmallow mattresses.
I slip from shadow to mist,
invisible in any language.
There is no word for welcome
grief, this fog, the fat raspberry,
stillness. The pain of transience.
In a moment, the world opens
its shutters, scrapes chairs
from empty tabletops.
The clatter of silverware. A cup
full of silence splashed in the sink.
August 8, 2008
A sloppy eraser dragged across
the worn paper sky. Gray smudges
the mountains. It will rain today.
All postcards lie. The weatherman
names it mist, light fog, partly
cloudy. We wrap slickers
over white shorts and tank tops.
August 9, 2008
The boys miss the morning wrapped
in sleep the way the mountains
are wrapped in early mist. Sun
will burn through the fog of dreams,
leave them blinking in unaccustomed
brightness. The coffee shop empties.
The waitress swaps menus,
breakfast for lunch.
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