top of page
  • Frank William Finney

Fine Lines

I sit upon rocks at the edge of a cliff acquiring new wrinkles as you read.

My sorrow runs the risk of rhyme, the outright gifts of revery.

I know you’re hungry for happiness. I wish I had the cure.

See, I’m counting crows in willow trees and their feet keep walking over me.

About the Author

Frank William Finney is the author of The Folding of the Wings, as well as Songs of Insomnia. His work has been featured in Glacial Hills Review, Livina Press, The Metaworker, Spank the Carp, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Massachusetts, he taught literature at Thammasat University in Thailand from 1995 until 2022.


Recent Posts

See All

I stepped on a praying mantis yesterday, the act unintentional, irreversible, my apologies sincere, profuse. Can the dead forgive? All that was once inside the worshipper now lay atop the pavement, as

if yellow were a scent it would be this top note of sunshine the first to fade heart note something like basil base note clover, or cedar I forget how I learned this and I couldn’t say why some random

the deepest wounds are caused by those we thought loved us, but only used us instead; those who wasted our time, our love, and our affection— they say not to regret it, but i do; wish i had spent the

bottom of page