How I Remember

Flashflare, silo on fire,
flesh clods with blood spatter,
not a whole walking body.

An anxious grip squeezes time
to trickles tinted gray and brown,
forms, ideas, skeletal heads.

Postcards in a flea market,
flip through and pick.
“Hal is sick, worse, leaving soon.

But beautiful here. Hate to go.
Have you written Audrey yet?
Love, You Know Who, the Owl.”

Only postcards I ever wrote
long since flew on ash wings.