They say I inherited the moon in all the wrong ways— not soft, not silver, not saintly. They say I bruise the night just by
There was a year in Peru when the sky learned to burn. Not a metaphor— literal fire raining down in bursts, bank fronts blown open,
A dopamine rush of poorly placed semicolons,a saline flush to exit the daydreams formed by blue bloodshot eyes peeking above my glasses’ rim,flowing out of
The candle sweats between us.The psychic names the dead I once lovedas if reading anonymous obituaries. My high school friend Joe who often wonthe 400
Listening to songs along the riverfrontno shoes, manicured yards, nothing to aila vessel filled with prospects one sheet of color vibrates across the skylinean agent