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White

falling from the sky at dawn, it is white.

Snow White -

present from the heavens to his chosen people

towards year’s end. Hallelujah! This

 

holly flower will blossom and embrace

the barren earth, the singed sinned soil of

human toil. How much does it take to

rebirth the world? Not much.


Just flakes of bone-chilling jaw-shivering

crispy

whiteness,

lighter than felt.


Overnight, it bleaches the sidewalks colorless

and forms heavy clumps

latching, choking, crushing

moss (microbiomic greengrass.)


Cruel like elve-witches. Ymirs

slink under pillows into dreams. What parables!

you stare
as I dance in the dawn

 

ice in my tongue.

But

I envy you people, to whom

White


is a reality, as fixed as the deep blue wells of your soul-windows

and the latent crimson spots that surface

when you are too uncomfortably fazed

by UV rays.


But if I linger long enough, tell me, O my

darling

if White

will become my reality, too.






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