Beneath the whitest pearl sky
the scent of pink lemonade wafts.
The sun is glass.
Fields trimmed in lace.
Hoards of human paraphernalia
burning, under the magnifying glass.
It’s the life of white to destroy in gentle tides.
The bitter angels in us,
the blacker angels outside.
My blood pearls. A necklace to wear.
My spirit in my high heels. Give me a scotch.
Give me talcum powder.
Embalm the fog that veils my name.
Miniature Moon 