windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

we know

the steam that I would
blow with snark, i’m saving up
for love poems to you

waking up

winter deepens. it’s
true: my favorite song was written
to sell records.

current events

resentment is the bane of our age. look around: 
if anyone seems an inch taller 
or shorter than you, beware. encountering blame, 
i bend to meet the truth.

untitled

the best horse runs at
the shadow of the whip. mid-
autumn: ouch. ouch. ouch.

tanka

my ancestors fell
asleep, on chilly autumn
nights, overwhelmed by
countless stars. i count them on
my fingers, between streetlights.