“Ninth month, feels like june,” your goose coat, fixed-gear bike stops. What’s under that skin?   Covertly shielding tampon squeezes, oozes through. Do you see me bleed?   Burnt leaves, frosted pond. Bill flaps, splash; platypus sinks… is it you…

The Milky, Silky Prize

Like how the elevator slid open for him at work, the trolley doors slurp shut behind him. The platform, holding floral skirts, and once-polished shoes now dirtied by the the grime of the station, becomes acrylic on canvas; twisting and…