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.
Miniature Moon 