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  • Choking that day in Kaneshie Market
    on wood smoke, bus smoke, sweat
    stopped in a teeming street
    amid a hundred thousand slaving days
    for a thickly knotted sweet roll.

    Letting the grease lubricate our fingers--
    fluid, not wet--
    breathed the fatty air
    of a hundred thousand exhalations
    like a hundred vigorous nights
    or a single birth.

    Sweetness in our mouths
    and I thought I might
    return to a cradle, gentle rocking
    where breathing is made easy.
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