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29 NOLI ME TANGERE Your body a carnival. A thing we stare at long past seeing. The drunk having wandered too far onto the tracks, into the train. A body in the act (that moment, that shadow) of becoming not a body. Everything on backwards or the wrong way around. Some mangled and final thing. His sex, unburdened, there, in his lap, a part of him variegated, splayed. Not less, only different— as leper, as severed limb, as deformity and mutilation and disfigurement—but still we do not look away. His betrayal and corruption, his never-to-be-used again. I am lost as to your need of me. We who headlong come here. And but the beholder (that moment, that shadow) wanting. ...

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