Christmas trees are hoodlums in disguise
that grow on the ceiling of the void.
Sleep embraces clay semicolons and
dappled Thursdays that run away from
rumors about the flesh of the books
scattered over deluded snow.
About the Author
Ivan Peledov lives in Colorado. He loves to travel and to forget the places he has visited. He has been recently published in Eunoia Review, Impspired Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest.