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      January 17, 2025RegretsEdmund Jorgensen

      Regrets are pointless—
      Which doesn’t mean
      They don’t have an edge
      That’s mortally keen—
      That’ll halve your brain
      And cleave your heart
      And tease your days
      And dreams apart—
      Until at length
      You play two roles,
      Like water poured
      To fill two holes—
      And neither self
      Quite stuffs your skin:
      The almost-am
      Or the might-have-been.

      from #86 – Winter 2024

      Edmund Jorgensen

      “I write poetry because order is a protest against despair.”