Dreamed Island

The postcard folds the sea as if it were paper,
on the stamp a light that knows no border,
addresses the houses that dreamed it.
The houses open their doors with eyelids,
the chimney sets aside its silence,
the chandeliers incline the words.
Inside, a map that finds no cardinal points,
gardens containing names and desires,
tides that sing notes never tuned.
The postcard remains hung on the thresholds like a secret;
the island smiles, nonexistent and real at once,
until someone calls it with sleep.