It was supposed to be a time machine.
When I turned it on, it snowed
as big across as teacups.
Delicate, huge, six-pointed—yellow.
It was like walking through frozen sunshine.
All afternoon, drifts of sunset pinks, orange, gold;
red and purple near dusk,
a million blues.
I stood outside in the dark
pointing a torch upward.
Vast black crystals fluttered down at me.
At sunrise I turned the machine off:
Great green drops that bounced twice
after they hit the ground
and made a noise like laughing.
So I put the machine back on
and the drops unpuddled and leapt back into the sky,
pelting upwards with a liquorice-scent and laughter.
I broke my machine apart
and cried when it snowed again.
Snowflakes with seven points, or three, ten, fifteen.
Flakes the size of peas, or barrels, or grain silos:
one blotted out the light and crushed my outhouse.
The snow itches on my skin, and swears,
and flashes like Christmas lights.
I think I broke the world.