Postcard
There is no
resolution
or solution
when a ghost
hops time zones
You wrote, “I’m all alone,
but the beauty
of the afterlife
is that everything
is automatic,
and nothing
is problematic
anymore.”
A glossy photo
of a golden shore,
angelic scrawl,
in my head,
your voice,
heavenly southern drawl
Impossibilities
were always
your specialty,
and I’m sorry
I can’t reply
"You never said goodbye. "
No return address
for loneliness,
no messenger
to throw
a harpoon through,
only a wind chime,
maybe white noise, a smoke signal
to let me know it’s from you
