those inked words
on his lifeless palm said,
'never be afraid
to start again.'
red drips down his mouth,
red drips from his eyes
red drips on the rug—
life torn
like paper.
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
