the winter anthology
Vol. 4
Donna Stonecipher
the postcard-
collector’s address
I know the world
only through
form. Mosaic
of views. It is said
melancholics
gravitate
toward miniatures.
It is said what is miniature is liberated
from the pretty tyranny
of use. Systematic
kindlers, tonic
postulants, distillations
of the garden
into flat vials, insect’s
Louvre, insect’s
Constantinople, wherever I go
my postcards go
with me. I saw my name
calligraphed on a grain
of rice. I saw the tiara
of spires held
in the pupil’s
dark embrace.
I closed up
the postcards in a jewelry
box where they remain
eternally
local.