A brittle face,
Snowy eyes
Communicate carefully the
Minute details of the storm inside.
In the hall the elevator doors part,
And my tears gush out,
A salted homage to King.
My surface life is disturbed,
Alabaster marred by freckles and nodules and
Wednesdays.
My outer life is placid, perceivable, unpersonalized.
But inside this domestic box,
Lay the most anemic dreams,
Copulating,
Breeding hopeful runts.
Miniature Moon 