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Rondeau at the Train Stop

by
 It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display.
The Puritans were right! Sin is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound in the population.
it bothers me because it's summer now and sticky - no rain to cool things down; heat like a wound that will not close.
Too hot, these shameful percolations of the body that bloom between strangers on a train.
It bothers me now that I'm alone and singles foam around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings of sweat.
Know this bay's a watery animal, hind-end perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.

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