Monday, January 21, 2013


Wish You Were
Here, an aftertaste of traffic taints
the city’s breath, as mornings
yawn and bare this street
like teeth. Here, airplanes leaving
Heathrow scare this house
to trembling; these rooms protect
their space with outstretched walls,
and wait. And evenings fall
like discs in a jukebox, playing
a song called Here, night after night.
Wish you were. Your postcards
land in my hall like meteorites.

-Colette Bryce

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