Light shaped women promenade along the proletariat public space, a space defined by signs and porous desires. Water courses through me at 90 miles an hour, and the rapids are teeming with sizzling ideas. Poetry lives in the air. The crinkled dawn is so hard. Remember when she said, “I’m gonna leave you early for paradise?” It’s another day of you and me in ethereal dreams. The 90s pirhouette in my old house. My sister canoes in her mortal art. Time drags me towars death, but he pulls me with a balloon string as I ride in a laundry basket beside him, so I’m having literally the time of my life. I flow into Friday like a flower wilting its way through Autumn. At the end my seams are torn and my seas shorn in half like Moses has a bone to pick with my water personally. The fish here smell like failure. Addie swims through my synapses, pondering Walden Pond.
Miniature Moon 