Postmarked Prague

George once was a drop
in an ocean too large to hold back,
and he pointed to where
a man on the square
simply turned himself into a fire.
He walked through the side streets
with the state perched on his shoulder,
owned a spider he said
was worthy of a fine
museum, and never forgot
it was impossible to tell back then
a truncheon from a heartbeat.
He wrote letters
in the bad times and the good and
in the disappointing ones that washed
up on the step of his
apartment. He sent postcards
showing centuries when the church
was art. Sent greetings. Sent
questions. Sent sighs
of relief. Sent a caution about freedom
never tasting of the sweets
in the Slavia Café. His became
the only Easter card
delivered, until
he slipped away beneath
a postage stamp,
just peeled a corner
and made himself small.




David Chorlton







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