Kristen de Kline #104 Another poem about postcards and light

Dear Facebook     stop sending memories of my ex
twenty one years together broken up down whatever
irretrievable     is that the word?
who's counting the distance talking about space
gaining the world losing their soul who's counting
white doves cannon balls
sailing  
falling
how could we not know

70s disaster films stuck on REPEAT
soaking dreams saturating linen in the Undisclosed Location
2am 3am buildings quake
structures topple
earth moving machines gobble up
pale bodies   robotic limbs twitch
precariously    underneath rubble
blitz-like     I sleep in the daytime
life     during after during     wartime

Some days I write you long letters burn notebooks scribble on postcards:
Are you awake? Are you still buried in Sarajevo?

Some days I rev down the Monash    speed past the black van
loaded with semi-automatics     idling in the parking bay
a patchy flash of blue streaks through     some days

Like Tom Thumbs exploding in a glass bottle
we wake to the sound of gunfire crackling
how could we know     not know
was it the shivers the kisses your touch my wave
the end    how could we not     know

I bend down for a postcard.
I'm beginning to see the light, it says, wine in the morning breakfast at night.

I pick up another postcard that has just dropped from the skies:
Do words fly?

And another in red ink:
Are things blowing?

I don't know where these postcards are leading.
I think I can hear gunfire people crying.
He tells me he's wearing his teeth in his hands.
I don't know what that means.
I think I can hear people singing songs by Dylan & the Velvets.
He's asking how it feels to be loved.

The last postcard, perhaps, strikes my cheek.
It's a repeat of the first card.
I'm beginning to see the light, it says.
I flip it over.
Some days, it says, the light changes everything