Your markers foul my brain
with their lovely scents
and their highlight-like colors
screaming your white praises
off the wall at the merest felt stroke.
Your holy whiteness
marred by years of words and lines
left too long on your alter of ivory,
surface shiny like wolf’s teeth,
you are the hunter’s spear-head.
You exist for storms of brains
from torrents of cold frozen brain-hail
to light-pink brain-rains with a chance of
grey-matter sunshine peeking out from pink clouds
later in the meeting.