My 7 faces are stacked on a shelf in the back of my closet. I try on two before I choose the softest of two evils. My eyes have nostalgic lens filters. In this reconstructed reality of marble and glass, I envision velvet cushions and burgundy shrouds. My name is a museum of sound fruitfully multiplying in the ears of angels. Across the street from my home, the Silence Store and Great Art Mart in a rundown strip mall. Delinquent ghosts skateboard on the crumbling parking lot.
Miniature Moon 