windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

Category: 17ft

sigh

the body is a suit worn by the breath a drapery, waving slightly in a timely wind. the starch-stiff places and the wrinkles. pocket lint.

quiet

a robin lands on the railing, turns its head peeks over its left shoulder and shits a laugh ignites my belly. off he flies steam-waves through the cold.