COLETTE BRYCE
Wish You Were
Here, an aftertaste of traffic taints the city’s breath, as mornings yawn and bare this street
like teeth. Here, airplanes leaving Heathrow scare this house to trembling; these rooms protect
their space with outstretched walls, and wait. And evenings fall like discs in a jukebox, playing
a song called Here, night after night. Wish you were. Your postcards land in my hall like meteorites.