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March 12, 2018 / barton smock


edited, slightly


while covering my mouth with a bruise from the robot’s vision board, I wheel our son past a group of seven men arguing the age gap between the first and last immortal and remind myself to appreciate the comic timing of those who move freely from one diaper change to the next without putting a small toe to their lips and I forgive them their privacy and their resting arms and I forgive them for believing absence is a straight line and for the one pair of clothes they don’t have to wear because god is a bad kisser and like that I am lost like no hand that’s been laid upon the chair of this frail evangelist

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