I Only See Halves

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when I look out my glass door-
half a tree, half a cloud, half a sunset-
the missing part blocked by my head-high fence.

Most of the time, I shut the blinds,
gazing at the slivers of green, blue, orange,
but I would prefer not to, like Bartleby,

whose passivity, I once asserted,
led to the decline of his health.
Others misunderstood how to help him.

Now, I find that I have become him.
I blankly stare at halves of something,
which amounts to nothing.

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