haimish;
of those things that once felt like placid homes—
like nooks of myself, within a chaos that I couldn't contain
and I didn't have to, because
I was home;
I was
haimish.
and have things gone awry,
like the twisted branches of
an old, old tree.
YOU ARE READING
h a i m i s h
Poetry. . . haimish; moon talks, and alleyed pyols. . . . homes a collection of snippets from the times I feel most at home. prose/poetry
