(x = space)

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Nonsense

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Some days make sense

Not this day

Maybe half

The half of me that slept and ate

And feels neither hot nor cold

And has energy to power

This machine

Into which I’m writing

And, for now, through which

You might be reading

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Which is how I’m handling

The other half

The scarred, bleeding, twisted

Other half

That might be more than half

Tomorrow

Because I know there have been days

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And this part needs

Understanding

As in compassion, yes,

But understanding

Like math

Like where the cities are

On a map

Like the aspect of pain

That cries that this is wrong

Unreasonable

To a listening God

Who loses us,

We’re sure

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Whose mortal timing, self-imposed,

Becomes weighted

And unshifting

Providence

Today

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C L Couch

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Photo by Arash Asghari on Unsplash

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