Few things are inert
in the sun, until
he stops and sees flannel
patchwork that leaves
visible a bulge that rolls
around dirt like a pit's
wrinkles. It smells
so loudly that some lift
their heads and bare
stained teeth
before they bend
to eat, and lick
the scabs of juice
from their chin.
These thoughts
clot the calmer passages
through which attention
flows. His fingers
are numb, but he will mind
less when a cheek droops.
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