Errors

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There is a particular delusion
in believing a Faustian pact
can be survived.

The pre-dawn intruding thought,
that hits the gut, defenseless and half-dreaming—
a spelling error in a legal document,
wine that could still be good
if we aerate it one more time,
bad grammar in a country love song
—bad grammar anywhere, really—
and this, the fractal loop of our own chemistry
as we circle the habitual drain
—wondrous and inglorious is the distance.

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