...and the full moon hangs high, holding onto inspiration like it was piss in a steel bladder. Clouds illuminate behind it like a wild mane of a woman; too intelligent to think her expression will fool us into believing she has nothing to give.


...but my feet stretch out beneath the table, hoping some warmth beyond the pale will soothe their sore arches. They've traveled all damn day in steps I would not have chosen for them. Finally, when I have time to select a path from my compass, they elect for stillness. An immobility that shivers with the song of a legless cricket.


...to keep my pen from embellishing without a touch of immature bravery. The courage pouring out of it now is too tempered. With too fine an edge to let me remember where these pulses cast their inaugural beat.


...for the purchase of laughter from a group of soccer girls. Each carving their own slice of shimmer from double loaves of rising headlights. Every passing car is another chance to spread the butter of victory, but they'd rather bask in its melt instead. Forgoing consumption to celebrate undigested triumph.