The post card graced a space forgotten as its sender:
A solitary occupation above the sink,
warping and fading for three years
Languishing until this moment, when
it finally caught my eye --
I peered: Dali's little vision in oils
Not little at all! All eyes but not just
eyes or just a card, a clever trick of space and vision --
You must see it for yourself:
"Architecture of the Eyes," 1929,
For me, from S., in '89, and the words more startling
than the thirty-eight painted eyes,
Not including postal workers,
and my other self and that makes two more,
the one who loved you.
"Paris, Marseilles and the Cote d/Azur ...
Barcelona and bulfights, excellent wine ...
I wish you were here ... my body so brown ..."
I read the stamps, too, and the quatri-
languaged title again and again, turn it
over and over
What a hasty read it had been,
Missing the tiny world, miniature mise en scene
painted with a brush of one hair
How did you find me, carte pequena,
after all this time, mail being what it is
and its sender?
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