In a pinch, we were the thrown — the spilled salt in winter’s chill wind.A black car on a nighttime drive…
Pardon my insouciance.
I am the inattentive spiritthat irons the creasesfrom your expectations.
I.It’s too easy to love and cherish winter window collections…
This is a poem for no one.
Just a list of questionable behaviourswith repressed memories;from one with nurtured…
It’s only been two hours,but the sun’s already stolenthe glaze from the world.