Postcard
by Lindsay Turner

The sunset is beautiful: a plane crash of a sunset in the outskirts, in the cornfields, a gold ricochet
off metal strips of silos as the empty farmhouse windows go
from watery undefined dimness to gilded plates shining west
before they dull there's too much soap in the sink
again and the bubbles spill over the sides, over porcelain and come down
oily along the fragile beveled stalk of sink (from my angle they hold
rainbows, they are beautiful too) now, look—the windows
in the middle of the city, blank with sun, watch them adore
the fountain, the stone arms outstretched as leaves redden
and fall to mold in granite palms the beginnings
come fast and there are so many, there are so many shades
and many slopes strange, the way we creep
in and out of other lives the way the kitchen table
wobbles when I write, now without
the weight of extra elbows the way (is this the way
it goes?) (light refracting golden from an eye that turns away) that, fearing
blindness, we might adore but turn away before we see.