Postcard

Bright storks spill down like water
pleating white between the palms of Menara.
Blue words, an ochre stamp, a city liquid
with harissaed light, 'we have to meet
will Wednesday do?' Your writing floats.

I can almost hear hibiscus fall like silk,
my night disrobing in some Moroccan room.
That slipping stitch of alleys, a long obscure.
Walking wordless, mouth of sand and stone.
Air has no weight, you left back then, before.

There's this whimper of grey on my river,
as if water feels the rawness of moving on.
Snow outside now, breaking quiet like bread.
How the tissue of us drifts. How blue becomes
some distant sky and you further than the moon.