windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

Month: June, 2005


the seasons here are mild: the age-old device of invoking the weather to represent the inner drama is only occasionally apt and especially not tonight


unseasonable misty rain. the nightly walk is scented like a freshly powdered baby (and i’m not trying to be poetic) wet hair. smiling. alone.

my nana

the details of your script defied all scrutiny: along with your aquiline nose, the fading memory of a few. you only knew one lullaby, but we’ll sing them for generations