By Brad Rose
I’m a very person. It’s not the anesthesia. Here, with you, beneath the cross-eyed moon, while we eat these silver slivered minnows, it’s like a medical condition. Last night, I dreamed we were warming our feet by a cozy forest fire, the ketchup-colored flames burning through our sleep. You, a one-fingered pianist, played tall, unrelenting music, while wearing someone else’s inflammable clothes, and me, an edible nasturtium with a heart of sushi, exploding with laughter. I’m sure it was an honest mistake. At least we were driving on the right side of the road. When can I see you again?
Bio: Brad Rose is the author of a collection of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015)