Letters of a Less Evil Planet

There’s a buzzing beneath my hair like the shrill of a bee.
You were once beautiful, I was once real.
If the moon scowled, it would resemble you.

Our ears cup at incoherences,
What murderous small talk.
I call you Lover, lover. You are ill.
Opalescent balloons cloud together, insects to be let loose
At news of land.

Your taste remembered rotten:
Sage drying to grey, another
Envelope from the ground.
I fly through the window’s hour with moth wings.


from January 09