Schools of saints in cream robes dripping with incense flavored chant swim through the collective psyche. On the boat above the water, Jesus and Peter fishing. Below the seal of unsliceable surface, me singing to an ocean liner full of dead partiers. Hunting herds of razor sharp HR managers comb the water for verbal malfeasance. I want to tend nurseries of consonants. Instead, I bewitch a ghost in his last century’s best, who tells me I’m the best woman he’s never had.
Miniature Moon 