James McGoram
Postcard 3
Write it all down, she said,
This is the history.
& I wish I could say
How the streets sang
The cobbled bikes bouncing around the walls
Evening wine slipping out for food,
How the time rang out
How we lost our time
How we drank it in
How we found ourselves in small jars
Here in the whiteout,
Under the sullen stars of well known songs,
Out here
I recount a dream
There were better things said in the dry pages we read and re-read to
ourselves, whether we wrote them down or simply lied about it, dreamt
it all up, postcards and all, for the sake of friends and foreigners,
all of whom were crying out for words, descriptions/
City after city, we walked among the dead.
Page(s) 91
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