Poems from Frances Wetherall
The mattresses that line the walls of the room have seen the butts of vagabonds, radical activists, a few soon to be famous poets, two...
I don’t want to compare myself to a river.
To do so seems insulting.
To the river, I mean.
But I never can tell when the water will
fall,...
How lonely you’ve become
Holding your breath out at sea
Standing shoulder to breastbone
With those who would love you
If you looked, but...
So he played his ukelele and hung a watercolor moon above my bed. I asked him what it was for. He said for protection, but I said bullshit...
No need to mourn what is complete
A sleeping man can not put up a fight
I make a point to choose not what I seek
Maybe if I pester...