Roses whisper about me.
Shrubs are two faced.
My eyes are berries that the hungry
Can pick.
In my hands,
the shadow of an unearned stigmata.
Hope for the eternal bliss of purposeful suffering.
Blank space is a conduit for meaning.
I fill the page with myself,
My ruby blood shimmering with neon green viruses
That unzip my best idea
Like a double helix.
The blue balloon was not my only idea –
Covering in the caverns of my 8th birthday.
Nature always takes its due
Dew
Do nothing as the river rises.
We already know next time
we will be cleansed with fire.
Miniature Moon 