Postcard from Chengdu

It was a real postcard,
as from a dream, but true.
A time in Chengdu,
by the banks of the Jin.
A scenic picture of the river:
Cappuccino froth,
flowing past flimsy tables and stools,
time was short.

The bus to the train station left
at seven, barely dawn, and the night–
The night was long. Yellow light from the lightbulb
made shadows flare. I don't even remember what we
spoke about. But I remember your cropped hair;
Your gentle dream coming true,
students at Tiananmen Square:
I was going there,
to curfews in Beijing.

At the statue of Mao in town,
the ozone of freedom
was in the air. And you; a thoughtful girl,
holding hands with the German boy.
I saw what he felt
in the tilt of his head as he watched you smile,
I envied you then, queen
of his world.

That you'd actually send
a postcard to me, shivering
cold in the New York winter,
was the long golden calm of the river.
That swaying lightbulb, the shadow's dance,
the intense stare of your lover–
Our dreams dust and ash;
but you still say,
"Maybe we will meet again
on the banks of the Jin."
Two bicycles
leaving us on the bridge
at the almost light. Where are you now?