Carousel Escape

Carousel Escape

{Ben Frost/Fotografia}


the grey and faded memory

of my internment

a horse, stuck on the carousel

a life’s sentence

forever turning in circles

never going anywhere.

she never got on

but I would see her there

almost a look of longing

sometimes, in the hallucinogenic haze

of a never-ending left turn,

I was sure I’d see her wave me over

and when I finally got tired

of that imperfect circle,

I leapt at her, the only sharp lines

in the whole memory,

all lolling auburn waves and

backlit glances, that

could mean everything or nothing at all.

when I leapt, I overshot, I thought

but realized I was taking off

like some newly metamorphosed



sooner or later, I’d have to land

to return to her.


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