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


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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