Postcards

Mold-curled and sun-faded,
on their backs the paper
is torn from tape—on
my wall they hang limp; a mosaic
of lifetimes. They are
the catacombs of my corroded
memory, pulling at
the strings of questions.
Is the horizon endless, or
does it fall off the edge
of the world, abrupt—
like monks in Thailand,
vanished in devotion?
Or the off-white plaster
walls of the Spanish
missions—the run-down
saloons, dripping with
blood and whiskey, and
the cold-hearted blow
of the Sierra winds—
their counterparts, majestic
waterfalls—colossal urban
empires—or the sea
itself, the sting of hot sand,
the kiss of salt? I sit silently
in bed—eyes closed,
ears keen. The senses
overload me; my shoulders
cannot bear this weight
of experience—I grasp
the arm of the ocean
and haul myself from
the tide—although
my lips do not move.
No one speaks of the places
that they’ve visited, but
in truth, never left.

© 2008 Andrew David King

Postcards

andrewdavidking

Joined January 2008

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