NICE THREADS. A stormcloud looms
over the story. Pith helmets
dissolve in tropical downpour.
Her skin is paisleyed with dye. His
is blotted by leaky biro. Pheromonal
markers seep through boiled sheets.
Clothing himself before dawn, whatever
he dons has crumpled in shadow. Its mild
stink dogs him to dusk.
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