Snow Globe

trapped
in a translucent sphere
-a snow globe you call it,
as if the chill inside
has something to do with the weather-
just us, with nothing
but pheromones and poetry,
our noses pressed to the
cling wrapped sky,
heads askew, searching,
never seeing the concealed hand
that unsettles our world,
bringing that sickly sweet
hot chemical smell,
and words that seemed to write themselves
across the empty pages;

in our own redolent bubble,
running through a steaming caldera
in terrain we have never seen,
where the earth smells of sky,
and the air is burnt bronze like the land,
churning the screaming sun,
where there are no whispered words
coated in fragrant saccharine,
just this unrhymed tumbling,
as eternity bakes
in the splintered light;

until the unseen arm
shakes our universe again,
scaring the chanting brahminy kites,
lined up like shamans on a cloud shelf,
and we slide down the plastic dome,
leaving a trail of sticky dreams,
mouthing new lines
that froth at the edge of its glassy lip,
just us, lost in pheromones
and poetry,
hands pressed against the cleaner side,
a scented verse of syrupy fear,
flowing in random lines,
around an estranged
chestnut brown wing.

just us.