The fat, frilly sound of dream white clouds slipping and sliding across the cerulean atmosphere is a music that comforts me. By the dishonest river, the ghost of T Rex hunts. I planted my name in my man’s garden and now sparkling roses preen in the underside of his brilliant, turbine mind. I build dams with beavers when he is away. How many carnal valleys can I flood?
Miniature Moon 