Wet body smell. Gasoline. Cigarettes. Muggy like a sewer. I look up to blue slits between cloud grates. Public square is a fishbowl, upside down, roulette wheel people spun:
a woman scabbed with arms, white healing
a fat boy on a bench unscuffed skate shoes, eating subway
a pigeon waiting
Muggy, eyes split peas
My confidence is mush. Do you have faith in everything you write, everything you say? I’m waiting for convergence. I’m always waiting for two parts to unite. Why am I much stronger inside, in the quiet?
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