A window glowing with snowlight
and we’re running.

Take care not to make me your caretaker.
I’m just that tube you suddenly

share a tunnel with before we charge
into our own darknesses

or are whisked into them. Stop the whistle,
the screech, I’m trying to

whisper you something, something
you already suspect: in this tender

give and take, nothing much changes,
save the snow, which turns

the way drunkenness does
into hangover.



Joseph Rodgers is a writer of poetry, prose and non-fiction from North London, with a Master’s degree in Modern & Contemporary Literature.Β  His writing has featured in such places as Beyond Words Literary Magazine, The Mark Literary Review, Empty Mirror and UK Film Review.