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I almost died in July.
My brain was pre-arranged     
as scalloped potatoes,
with gloppy cheese.
Such symmetry
I invented that word
but not the illness.
Too much of this
too little that?
The doctors said my body 
was rejecting fat.
It was betraying itself  
I went to church
I gave money to the poor, graven images, cab drivers, and the like. 
I saw my reflection in a store window.
An exaggerated S
a question mark
awaiting its final rest.

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