Paddy Bushe
The Alps of Chiang Mai
I wake to the grumbling of the fan,
The night outside throbbing with cicadas.
You are across in your narrow bed,
The streetlight catching the sheet
Draped over your humps and hollows
Like snow on mountains lit by stars.
I remember high meadows under peaks
Where we crushed the scent from many flowers.
I will slip over under your sheet
And drench you with melting snow.
Page(s) 17
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