The Manicurist
Back then, a thistle wore a skirt of blossoms.Death streaked your toenails blue. I asked if I was wrong in leaving you.Walking along Leona Canyon, I answered no. The manicurist painted your fingernails. Also indigo.Wasn’t sure who I was looking at. A balloon pinioned to its back. I’d let go of the string. Loneliness? Habit? […]