Not dust, not ash. Honest to God:

Fat. Glittery. Flakes.

They vanish

soon as they kiss the nighttime sands

soon as they touch my faded desert camo.

Back home, in Pennsylvania,

the weather must look just like this.

Fat flakes whitening dirt roads.

High schoolers betting on a snow day.

The plowman (my dad)

stepping into his boots,

cursing the cold.

Snow, I shit you not!

Falling like confetti

in the middle of a feverish little war.

I stick out my tongue

try to catch a taste.

Who will ever believe me?