A Daily Self-indulgent Postcolonial/Feminist/Poetry-in-Progress/Culture Blog
Rain makes
unanticipated patterns
on the windows
like broken glass.
And on the street
windshields
like cobwebby ice.
The old man inside
is laughing.
Or coughing.
__
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We heard that At's 28-year-old ex died. I expected that everything would have stopped when I opened the eyes I shut in disbelief. I ki...
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