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from the writer robert frost, walking through words on a snowy evening

ekelemchi okemgbo

the horse stops in the middle of the dense word forest poem / cut out all of the eyes / words like walking around completely blind / the prompt was ""you make me feel like"" & now there's nothing but wishes for the opposite / catharsis is the feeling of peace after the dragon in the belly is released or the feeling of air entering water fill lungs with a sputter sputter cough / in rooms this small there aren't places to hide from reminders of veterans day top bunk of your bed & the fozfens poster you had commissioned, internet dogs watching over intranet beings / horse pauses, gigantic beast breathing in winter air. it snowed a week ago but the crystals of ice still linger in warm blooded lungs. cold hand, cold touch, but the horse is still strong / travel in the taylor swift years feels trivial, three towns in ten months, but the oregon trail living broke the happy days & turned them into ash / when the sugar went sour the organism began to fail, & with frantic attempts to keep it together, a new toxin was introduced to kill the cancer / the sap bled blue, & yellow, winding around battered branches / pooled on the ground of the mass pike like a black ice metaphor / crying over sufjan stevens angel wings &, years later, a blue canary in the outlet by the light switch in the conneticut wolf den / all connections missed, or burned, or wilted like animal crossing crops / where the mayor has left their throne to let the weeds grow high / the horse continues to move, as he must. this is his job, purpose, calling / as snowy steps are taken to a cabin far away the sun begins to set & darkness must be accepted / the darkness will come whether or not it is accepted / the train of passing thoughts goes through wellesley station. can you hear the whistling? the steam floats from the nostrils of the horse, galloping towards the goal he must believe exists / goals, like dreams, or promises, have no guarantees / metal scrapes against metal as the train passes. remember, just over two years ago, what was whispered underneath blankets in discreet beds? / a couple of days ago you said that you were a bad friend, & yes, you were / nine thousand & sixty seven miles later the sun hadn't set on this side of the world but the horse is still galloping / there's not much time left, it's only the rest of his life / old metaphors run through the tree where the tap was & love runs like a fire in a cabin that is now home / there are miles to go before sleep / miles to go

bird
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