These are words unheard
by me; I wish I had been present
to carry and hold, to raise them.
But now, another hand
must hoist the load.
I could raise
those words,
and their meanings,
and I have power
beyond my hands’ lift. My eyes see
a compilation of letters turned to dust
hanged against our blackboard,
with each day, becoming
the ashes of a stripéd horse.


Cough; spit; vomit;
the words begin their ascent,
being pulled through ventilation,
they now live in your lungs.
Words you never knew
are the coating of your depth.


Those white flakes of literature
cleanse the palate so;
or collect like mucus in the passage
toward what I believe is good.


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