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Night Is Gracious

(x = space)



Night Is Gracious


I can’t think of what

I deserve

Because I deserve nothing

Too well I understand

(with Protestants)

The wages of sin,


Because I’m criminal but

Because I’m sinful,

Maybe in the way

Of all who’ve sinned and so

Deserve extinction


But sinful state and actions

Might be

A prelude unto grace—and so

Some say there must

Be evil on the way,

And I wonder


They don’t really go by halves,

And shadows are not evil

Evil isn’t natural

Though insistent

And when we think

The evil life is

Shadow life—they don’t combine,

Not really

Decide what you will


Let evil sublimate for now

But shadows can delight

At night

Or teaching about night

In day


In daylight we’ll have Parousia,

I suppose

Thought at night perhaps

We’ll celebrate,

Then rest

The rest we should have had

In Eden,

Now a rest

For all to merge

To bathe of goodness,

Leaving all distinct



Each one a player and a part

(not the player without

an upstart part,

as Jaques laments

an irony of stasis)

In everything revealed

By light, by shade

All shades of existence


Under the sun

(evil abrogated)

While always under stars

Belonging to night,

Where we also


All belong


C L Couch



Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash

Wisconsin State Fair Park Exposition Center, West Allis, United States

Taken from the Sky Lift at the WI State Fair, August 2017




(a reverie, a study)


Evil is too easy

Is it really?

Maybe on the inside

A quick turn, then stay

In that direction

Me, first

You don’t exist

Everything is fodder

For possession

And control

The very stuff of the universe

Should be mine


And then it’s gone

I have nothing

There’s a lesson in legacy

The tyrant is forgotten

Except for notes that tell the truth

And finally

The evil ones are burned

Like autumn leaves in the backyard

(how it used to be)

Effigy and memory


And was this easy?

Yes, and lazy, too

Everything subverted to

A contract with the luck of the devil

A genie who grants wishes and


Always laughs the last

Because the house of hell always wins

Once entered by

The gullible who think

That profit is a plot

Hard work is another matter for

Good people

The suckers, so I always thought

The despot

And now I am ash

Blown off the foot in the tread

Of someone righteous

Whose agencies are angels

A surrogacy of judgment


My victims


Living in a better house, the house of God forever

While I diminish

To a speck

And then am nothing

No matter left



C L Couch



Christopher Michel

Ramesseum in Egypt


Psalm 17, a difficult song about mourning

Psalm 17
a difficult song about mourning

Lord, how do we mourn
in a free land? How do
we allow atrocity and

still have the freedom
to choose? We do not
cry in empty space: but

our crying would be worse
in a revenge-wrought iron
land, where security

would be the only aim
and no one would have
open air to breathe

or drop tears for the
dead and for the living.
We must choose to

choose. Not to allow
evil or to destroy
democracy. Mourning

and breathing while we
arm, yes, and await
evil’s annihilate implosion.

For now we choose, in
a free place, to bear
the weight of death—in

nations wounded and in
the raw-split parts
of the human heart.

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