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Robert S. King
Only the wind and a blade of light
can pass through the crack in the wall
behind which I itch from a mind rash.
I am a haunted ghost
who cannot pass through,
only bounce off or stare at walls.
A fissure is no keyhole.
Neither patience nor prayers have widened
the way out, though I’ve longed for it to open
onto green valleys where play flutes of birds
and violins of bees. But I am captive
to my own flock and hive.
I should learn to think inside the box,
battle the heart to beat in place,
medicate the rash and be thankful
for a ration of fresh air whining through
the wall’s stinging wound.
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