The continents bicker and men butcher. Across the manic sea, who licks every port at once, an angel with my name labeled on a baby pink gift bag. Goodness is coming, in all her soft finery. Her song will echo through cagey canyons and unwilling deserts, over waves high enough to lap at God’s ankles, and give life to all of us dying of evil. The days are evil. So are the nights. Only evening, in its threatening purple aura, retains hope for a new dawn. The angel wears wings from Kmart, covered in sequins, and I love them. In the pink bag, a bandage and so much fluffy cotton in pure light white.
Miniature Moon 