reverse the telescope for a creepy inversion of sense
that depicts the starving moon on a unexpected draw down.
these are the incandescent trumpet trills that nail your heart
onto a carpet that is only shagged in the pink of memory.
somewhere in a wood that is the crayola of forest green,
we hear the dark tremolo of gnomes that are prone to biting.
this is a culture of scary stories that ascend into the heaven
of the things unarticulated that make you cry at bedtime.