Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Wendy Muzlanova

Five on the Die

when his dirty mouth is closed
his hands make music

his fingers fly
I watch him and

I wonder at
those workman’s hands
the bit-down nails and calluses
the tattoo on his hand
burnt away
to almost gone
a statement of opinion
the mark of a gang

the number five upon the die
four walls and one alone
the solitary centre

he plays in the dark and
I write without my eyes


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