Curl the fingers to brush back bangs Consider the vast bald blank canvass The tiny head in the crook of daddy’s arm The elder, furrowed and somewhat dry The youth, oily and acned The head of shame, bowed but present The face of pride, confident that others are more mortal The heads not there The heads not in the game The eyes caught emotional and weeping The eyes averting, too much soul to bear The ashes, crumbled, crumbling Caught under... Read more