windrag : poetry : journal

quiet trickle-mist thick wet wind chimes heart races–what’s next? this alone

we pretended it was raining in the classroom and crept along the walls, under imaginary awnings, where the ants were right at home dry and above our fingertips

i am cognizant of when i need six syllables i know when two will do. it’s time to bring fresh flowers from the yard and fold the laundry i’m not expecting guests

red fir floor, hand-polished, and pitted in places hand-woven horse blanket, hand-braided rag rug, both of old wool, and fished out of cans at the curb tobacco-colored-tailbone-and-shin-home

confused by sickness and lack of sun, i step outside to see if the moon is up my neighbor must be thinking “why’s he turning around and around like that?”