The moonlight, a rather ambitious floodlight really, considering the ambient glow from the Stewart’s Shops down the road, bathed Brenda Higgins’ modest Poughkeepsie backyard. She was perched on her porch swing, a fleece blanket around her shoulders despite it...

I am the drone, a wisp of sight-  I felt the warmth of borrowed breath.A borrowed lens in endless night, the second life, the final death. I see my hands in theirs—a lie—  I, the moon ascends a fungal bloom.And spread...

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁' 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓁 𝓇𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈  𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈𝑔𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒶 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝒽𝓎𝓉𝒽𝓂𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁  𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈