Rondeau At The Train Stop

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.