Roaring orange fantasies float like a triangle song (waltz) until they blend with the dawn. Crunchy consciences brace with brittleness for the coming judgment. “Today is the day the Lord has made. Rejoice and be glad in it.” My rejoicing shaves off growths of fear bubbling out of my tired skin. He has to do that over and over, the dermatologist keeping me held above the flames. My mistakes cling to me like bacteria, multiplying. Math I can smell.
Miniature Moon 