ant5

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grassy hill

trash heap

from the 40s

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leaves turn

into pigment on

the pavement

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the tiny fly

he’s the only

one

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I think your

hair in my collar

is a bug

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the shrinking

roses sour and

falling over

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the hexagram

that means

lost at sea

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we’re just complicated

enough to

be eternal

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the spirit

declines to

elude us

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just past the dark

storm clouds lit-up

wisps of vapor

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shapes of trees

filled quickly

with darkness

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