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Anterior Advance


The growing conflagration in my pants
owes not to passion's flame, but fire ants
which navigate the seaport of my thigh
like drunken six-legged sailors on the fly.
A picnic's atmosphere can quickly turn
on tiny bites where formic acid burns
when uninvited guests forgo the tarts
and hanker for the host's more private parts.

 


 

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