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The Politics of Rain

In America, beneath the baptismal plinks of rain, between every footfall, glazed by their own oils, crawl so many worms. Worms! Out in the open, Out for public scrutiny, out for the screams of squeamish human eyes, bubbling like cameras, and shoes that either brake hard or stomp harder. No secrets stay slinking in the sheltering grass. No crimes remain unpunished; the rot is boiled up, out into clear skies where damp miasmas disperse, out for a clean renewal. Spring rains fall transparently, flooding the slimy things out from their hilly dens. When stomped clean off this earth, their juices feed the soil. Back home there are no worms. A city