I bought you a book
to keep postcards from me,
a cheap trick to keep you
cataloguing our continuance,
but the chickens have come home,
and my writing unglued
by unused postage
(a penny jar unemptied
weighing down pursed lips).

You write,
“Whenever I come here
I long for you.
Somehow the brick buildings
your hair,
the white window frames
the contours of your face
and that seeping glare,
sunlight through clouds,
always you.”

I put the postcard down
and have another sip of coffee.
This is Brooklyn after all
where a motorcycle revs,
a horn honks once,
twice more
a bus breaks
a generator hums,
a basketball bounces,
the bus keeps breaking,
stops keep stopping,
the sounds mumble, blur
fade, but for, you, who says:
“P.S.
Dream of here,
I will meet you under the lamplight.’

Crinkled maps
folded too long
fade, and starlight
in morning
goes unnoticed.
But we know
it glows,
anyway.