Postcard
the sky’s too orange
any swollen belly
would seep in infection
she waves back
at you, says careful
the thistle bites
why make numbers up, let
fingers hang, forehead
slick and shiny
a series of ticks
feed off your
body, like angry
splinters
do not twist do not
leave the head inside
your skin and a
pebble
between your fingers
she points to the cavern
ahead the one folded—
a stony ear
on the other side
a track layered, green
weeds and years of
distant bells
are stacked
against you
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