Postcards Poem by Michael Brennan

The old man fumbles with his keys,
The waiter appears embarrassed.

‘I don’t want to talk about love any more,
But sing it on the pebble of your tongue.’

She listens, counts petals of a sunflower on the table between them, and listens.

‘I want to sing so the stone rests, knows
Nothing of the world but that love creates us

From a moment, that the world only exists
The fraction before it sings.’

She listens and counts petals just so many grains of sunlight trapped.