Postcards

In the used bookstore today
looking through their antique postcards.
On one I see a wooden roller coaster
that claimed to have been the heart of Silver Beach,
“Southwestern Michigan’s Coney Island”.
I’ve never rode any coaster,

just stood close enough
to hear people scream.
Like me they may have feared
fire or buckled timbers.
I never wanted to be on one, screaming.
Just the picture scares me,
a huge wooden tongue ready to eat me.

And here’s another postcard
from the same resort town, Silver Beach,
which I’ve never heard of.  Here we have a
red-roofed lighthouse
which claims to have a fully-automated
foghorn.  Beyond it a lake
(Silver Lake?) rises to the horizon.

I imagine us swimming in it,
my love, freezing cold and choppy waves
and murky all the way to the bottom,
far from the shore, but I wouldn’t be afraid.
Once on the shore our soaking clothes
would weigh us down and we’d roll around
and laugh like children.

Tonight we’ll fall asleep beside each other
far from Silver Beach, and I’ll write you
postcards in my head, waiting to tell you
until the sun is up.  I’ll be writing postcards to
you even as I sleep, as the night closes
over us fearlessly and scarlessly like water.

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