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 

only I 

percieve as both real 

and sentient 

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.

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