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      February 13, 2025Year SixTodd Robinson

      The horizon rebuffed
      our hopes.
       
      She stopped going outside.
      Her bedroom blinds
       
      became tourniquets
      tightening light to slits.
       
      Neighbors’ homes
      were caves aflame
       
      I counted with the owl.
      People still walked
       
      their snuffling dogs.
      Migrating doves
       
      brought record heat,
      red flag warnings,
       
      winter down to one
      snow as she ate, slept,
       
      ached, suns setting
      like alien things behind
       
      the house we painted
      hospital white,
       
      the blue bedroom
      where she fell and fell.

      from #86 – Poetry Prize

      Todd Robinson

      “Six years ago my favorite mortal came down with a cluster of shipwrecking symptoms. She’s still mostly herself, but hasn’t been able to work or do much living since. Poems are where I stow much of my grief. Or are they machines of language that distill fear to something potable? Or are they ground for wonder to grow in spite of drought? Yes, yes, everlasting yes.”