Into the Moss Into the Moss

Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.

Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?

Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.

Alchemical balls: swearing’s not big or clever, even in your head.

The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".

Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.