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

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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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