The postcard says it’s black in Duluth every night.
I turn the card over and begin to write.
Would you still move here?
Houses hug the hills like blocks of ice
and Lake Superior is a smooth bear

ready to rise. Birches shimmer in the sunlight.
Maybe I should spend the summer here and write.
The sky is burnished by spears
of grass. The postcard says it’s black in Duluth every night.

This postcard doesn’t show my side
of the story. I found moss, stars of exploding green,
on Lafayette Rocks, and heard the loon’s bleary
cry. They say nothing happens in Duluth, ever.
The postcard says it’s black out every night.