Blog by Hannah Frank
The middle of each worry
hung on the coat hook
of New Amsterdam
fondling the pearls on the neck of the Saint
grinning admit the twists and turns
of burying bodies
the strange stench of War
is all I smell
after reading the book
on Bruegel
Praise the truth hold it up like Simba but keep in mind it might be deep in your heart unable to be touched by human hands