Flowers coagulate in the
living room you can’t see
because I have strung ten thousand
chandeliers from the foil ceiling.
The season is polished,
a wave of salt rolls over
the soil at the other end of the street
but here is nothing but
the tang of chlorophyll and breath.
Enclosed in my equatorial dress,
I am as a letter to the star,
whose power I painted
electrical in a posh home,
mixed media mural on my ceiling,
cheap imitation regality.
The ground shakes.
The scent of salt
blossoms from the door.
Tears in my pale eyes,
petals shriveling.
And still my lights do not
go out.
Miniature Moon 