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Man Ovulates On Train
When this happens, the hunger is a crisis of visions. 
Any man would do. 
Or every man.   

When everyone yells step down without looking   
up, man hears: bend down 
                         turn round 
                         wet mine.         

When wholly hijacked by an inch of skin
between shirtsleeve and elbow engaged 

to answering parallel of seatmate’s bicep, man
closes eyes and ovulates faster. 

Rapid calculus. His shirt is floral: either 
available or modern enough not to mind,         

man hopes, remains resolved 
to drop it like it’s not 

news. Man ovulating on train is a vision 

of crisis invisible in every way 
among the turning avatars, stop 
to stop. Each face a flattened penny 

awaiting its keepsake 
moment. A layman might luck 
out but why count on it.
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP