The nautilus shape of my indigo heart contains chamber after chamber of glowing ghosts, their scents trailing them like smoke. Ghosts of grace and hope. Grace swims like a flounder always away from me. Hope smokes hookah in a stained muumuu on the carousing beaches of my mediocre 30s. Some chambers grow roses, their red piercing my blueness, retrieving my innermost data from servers I sank in the ocean of omnivorous octopi. But the central chamber, perfect in its tiny finite nature, is the ozone of my being named Stony Place.
Miniature Moon 