Day Eleven: ‘Snowglobe Love’

April 11, 2013

We were kids, you in a petticoat, breath washed in ethyl —

pickled souls. Eighty proof education.

On weekdays, watching you from the window

in ribbon hair and sandals, dreaming. Remembering.

Your eyes slumped in textbooks. Mine circling

words and swallowing them whole as grapes.

The steam of night calling as a gentleman

and crowning as an infant. The hot blaze.

Years have tumbled us like drying machines

and spread a smear of hindsight between our legs.

Invented memory now hogs our sun.

All snowglobe love will crack one day. Bonne chance.

It ought to be a crime, a felony

to know so much and never say hello.

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