It’s odd.
When I leave behind
the confinement of
the cold, conditioned
Subway train
And the smell of rain,
fresh on the pavement
arouse my senses,
dormant otherwise.
I think of you
lying down,
the green of the grass
so filled with life
beneath, mocking you.
The blood curling in
the clarity of the greenery
Like a crimson spell, opaque.

It’s odd
Because
My hands are washed
And
I feel no guilt

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