windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

Category: poem

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.