we know
the steam that I would blow with snark, i’m saving up for love poems to you
the steam that I would blow with snark, i’m saving up for love poems to you
winter deepens. it’s true: my favorite song was written to sell records.
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.
the best horse runs at the shadow of the whip. mid- autumn: ouch. ouch. ouch.
my ancestors fell asleep, on chilly autumn nights, overwhelmed by countless stars. i count them on my fingers, between streetlights.