You part your tears
with a seaglass hairbrush; the chocolatey, mink brush bristles
paint pallid watermarks around your
wet-lashed eyes, like magic pipe frosting on papyrus.
I watch the snow,
that only I can see,
fall morbidezza when you walk my way; Psychedelic dream winds lift rings of cigar smoke
from your hair in a dais like aureole;
and I realize that it’s happening again: to me, of course.
Not to you.
The silent, dreamsicle snow that
percieve as both real
happens to me;
or rather, to sound less passive, I make it happen, like heroic magic.
It is my magic. It is my zoo, and I hope you’ll buy a yellow matinée ticket
and come see me be ringmaster of the symphonic snowdrifts of my heart.