Schism: ‘when the day got long as it does about now, I’d hear him singing to his muley cow’ – gillian

this is the harrowing of hell,
the parsing process of self-analysis
where the wheat and the chaff weren’t
as simple as what was for dinner
but why this meal was not that meal,
and, “Did you finish your green beans,
because starving children were starving”
whether we were grateful or ungrateful
in the cold, careful dissection
of angels or demons or us in between them,
and atoms of Adam’s of apples, decisions
down to hadrons and bosons,
it makes little difference whether we were forgiven,
for if never we touched, no matter collision,
electrostatic repulsion reconciled by division,
we’re half-left to believe that the right way to go
is the harrowing of heaven for its supervision.

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