The poem is feral, climbing under the bar and making a shirley temple with vodka. My body is bereft. My spirit sits outside myself flying my middle name on a ribbon like a balloon. The poem tells a tattooed man a story about that time she and____ burnt down the auxiliary doorway to Invisible Beauty. I grab the poem and she kisses me, her curves burning me. Fusing to my own. Tangential heavens speed away from the crime scene. The poem stumbles out of the bar. I stumble away from the bottle. We collapse in the meadow with the horses and she injects pure liquid ecstasy in her delicate veins. As her translucent skin bruises, I see the stars blink and then shut. Blackness overtakes us like old age, slowly then all at once.
Miniature Moon 