Follow the rubbery rainbows to the rambunctious roses. In the garden, my psyche sprints naked through the greenery. She’s too frightened to be embarrassed. In a cul de sac, a hunter of women with a skeleton in the trunk of his metallic black Dodge Dart. She is barely evading him, and he has more stamina. I turn to tending the roses, especially the pink ones. Then the neighborhood goes dark with a blackness so heavy it falls in flakes like snow, burning and refining my body.
Miniature Moon 