Space opening up like a rose, me blooming by lightning light. The sinister thing is hunting me in the mountains of Virginia. A sagging porch gives way, and I fall into a dank basement. “I was here” is written on the walls in ginormous neon green spray paint, but the quote is unsigned. Time shimmies in her shift. I have this discombobulated life to live, and my thorns grow inward. In the woods, a predator we the rose faced call, “The Gardener.”
Miniature Moon 