My memories haven’t faded, they’ve been

flash-frozen, freeze-dried. Honeysuckle, yes,

and rhododendron with roots like ruddy fingers.

Perpetual state of Edenic squalor,

which means that hereabouts you can still

get a gang up, mean no one any real harm,

and stand a chance of getting free. The whole place

is a hideout, green-black hole in the wall.

There’s even a town called Hell, which is where

I am in my mind, sending you this postcard

before they shut the office down for good.

I’ve sidled down the narrow street. It’s late,

and I’ve done nothing but write this.


state, state of my birth, state of my father still,

who lives somewhere close, though far from me.

I’m sure of one thing: whatever new drug sweeps

next our young and poor will find a home here.

Dropping it in the slot, I

see the return address

is already smeared.






Photo by Niklas Morberg