Out of Frayed Sackcloth . . .
Peretz Markish
1920
Out of frayed sackcloth—breasts of filthy cataracts,
Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins.
What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want?
There’s a dead child’s hat still here.
In the marketplace, a surveyor dozes like a white skull—
A homeless dog sniffs him as he would an old cadaver.
What shall we trade? Bread? How much do you…
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