Clandestine stars twinkle guiltily. Here even light feels accused. In my old house, a ghost reading Kant. God is in my garden lamenting the lack of roses. Spiteful space radiates cold. I carry a 50 pound sack of flowers everywhere I go as punishment for failure to grow. A ballerina dances to the sweet music of the moon that only she can hear. Black velvet night cradles our secrets to sleep.

What lies between the roiling world and the cool white light of heaven but the chasm in my gray heart? Sunshine knocked on my door once. I bit him. I trudge across a wounded woods twice daily hauling water for the perturbed ghosts that bathe in my yard. Nothing is ever enough. Somewhere is a heart shaped key with my name emblazoned in gold, and an idiot is shoving it into the wrong lock until it breaks. Heaven is like a squirrel feeding me nuts on the porch. It’s amazing but I’m probably dreaming. My soul struggles for resuscitation, and my man puts his lips on my broken person and breathes.