Literary Vegan

The afternoon winter sun — a glass ball, melted like rose butter on the surface of the pool. I followed it down with my arms into noiseless relief where the dark sky money season can't reach me — only the memory of every sparkling sea coast as I kick through past lives. Some places are a muscle you can only find repeating the stretch. LJ Ireton, 2025

Neon explosions over an urban mascara sky; I cry for hidden hedgehog spikes.  In the morning,  one lone dandelion stands in the park;  ghost grey full. He is sentinel to fake scatter-stars and those curling. He is the silent, breath-shimmer shape of both.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025