This morning things are different: turtle soup, drop of port, alligator sausage. A parlor-masked man on Bacchus wraps a teenager’s neck with seventeen strings of beads, drags his private prize. You inherited this trend toward the highest barometric pressures. You move northward. The 1986 factory installed speakers blare Op Ivy, Carly Simon, trois gymnopédies. The dinner plate moon rests carelessly on the horizon’s edge. You swerve among shadow trees between miles-wide craters of Ptolemaeus, that careless expanse between Mare Nubium and Mare Nectaris where craters ghost in and out till the sun dips and starry darkness comes.
Travis Kurowski runs the creative writing minor at York College of Pennsylvania. His writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in JMWW, Wigleaf, Ham Lit, The Lumberyard, and Paper Darts. Website: .