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At last: dawn. Crows in the trees wake. The trees

wake. The virus inside me stirs. Somewhere


lovers feel breath on their necks. Smell of sleaze

and gods. Rough taste from the roughest affair


is a blessing, too. Somewhere but not here.

Here? The chemistry inside me hates me.


My mouth fills with a taste: I’ll call it fear

of hints, of the things to come. Irony:


to long for longing. The one truth I know

I can’t have. Only this virus will claim


me. All the rest tsk over my health then

move on. Dawn won’t last even as the crow


caws her love. I despair then fill with shame

at my regret; the one thing I called sin.