Snow Globe

I want to hold your madness.

Wash it

through my fingers and

cup it in the hand-basket

I wove for you.

Let my fingers tug

ribbons of air from

between your lips

as you drink all the colour

from black and white photos.

Let the ash-buds of your eyes

fall like first snow, and settle

on the pencilmarks of your face –

naked to me,

as the paper you’re written on.

Karla M. Alexander

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