In the gold, twilight wilderness of my ambitions, aspen trees grow. Birch trees grow. Black eyes beaming out of flaking white casing, leaves as yellow as orgasms. The hills are humongous and roll up and down with my psyche. By the burlesque pond, my skin shining in the sun from beneath my judgmental shroud. The shore is fundamentally erotic. An electrical storm in my kitchen cooks lasagna and lights my breath up with pink flame. In my eyes, the reflection of an overtaxed, underrepresented ghost. I will climb trees and wait for my inner child to float back to me.
Miniature Moon 