Reading Time: 1 Minutes
for BS.
there’s a knock at the door of a doorless room,
but fingers do not cast the bangs—
a tumor of grief swells in the belly
of my angel’s hosanna & the bangs
bends her into a creased question mark
in a moon-lit dark room. hey, God, I see
what you do for other angels—
once [not too long ago],
i talked to trees & they talked
back to me. smell my rainbow songs, act accordingly.