Just a line of posts along the baymouth,
and the tide out. And I’m supposed to know
what they mean, this ship, this flag,
both departing on the horizon, this message.
I’m being tested. I’m under observation,
interpreting these picture postcards
sent by the nuns from Inveraray: wish you
were here. But we pray for you.
Pictures of cool green woods,
a thirst forever slaked beside the river,
a minaret, a market and a leaning tower,
and in the distance more the same –
the sunset over palms and best regards
from Disney World. You should know
the censor’s on my shoulder always,
like the poor, like my angel, striking
what I cannot say in any case: does love
still hold each others’ hands, does the heart burn,
or is the universe a glossy magazine
and all the polished girls bone china bright?