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Evening In
I burnt the pan before
the chicken cooked;
the black turned to silver.
I ate despite it.
The meat was fine;
a bit worse without sauce.
And I feel all right.
Listening to things,
writing for once. I don't
know for certain what
my balance is,
but I know I find it some times.
I think I have it here,
stowed between the smoke
and the full stomach. But,
it won't be still for long,
its skin will change;
it will bleed into the walls again.
