SCOTT METZ ant ant ant ant ant nine

November 17, 2011 § 1 Comment

A Sealed Jar Of Mustard Seeds

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bits of found objects that hole she left in me

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up among the dawn stars her dreaming hand

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falling through my side of the story blood red spring

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it’s always either the ocean or a mountain with her

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ants have found the freshness last night’s lightning

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weed it openly challenging the war czar

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an illusion of green the caterpillar’s comment

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peony night i lift the mask by the tip of its nose

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i say yes sir to the rattlesnake sign

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from pistils sky scrapers covered in vaseline

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new myths crawling slowing into the old heat

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autumn leaf already i am attached

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last of the ice he enters the apocalypse before me

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meadow speaking the language she dreams in

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the fog returns my carbon footprint

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entering through the back door eaters of light

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a comma attached to the tip of the flowering branch

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without permission part of me starts to bloom

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still cold the taste of the fan

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abandoned by an insect full moon and i

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last of the fireflies in my small intestines

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our silence fogs the window city inside us

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at the very edge of it all saplings

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winter day barely one language

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green noise the cicada can’t hear it

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the blood rushing through my blowhole winter stars

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a god that never noticed me before the peony shadow

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sometime today i’m bound to grow another string

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bright thick moss the violence in me

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a sealed jar of mustard seeds swift moving clouds

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sometimes the wind lifts up its wing to read

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invading another land crow caw

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trees almost bare touching you

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letting the lightning inside elephant cherry blossom

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daffodil scent no longer in the elevator

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the aftertaste of snowflakes pushing away

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speaking up peonies in my synapses

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inside a hotel of runaways glass elevator

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a dried up grain of rice clinging to the black sea

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perfume on my fingertips from the counter fading moon

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is it the wind god reminding me of her breasts

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coastal blossom the opposite of america

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what would the cicada think quiet nights

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could be her could be a firefly

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thru an eyehole the crow leaves a sea of skulls

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the leaf’s erotic story circling the hawk

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winter night she knowingly reveals another arm

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the war awakens the face of an insect in the mirror

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among the keys i took off black sesame seed

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asleep her fingers move on their own over moss

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the old train tracks end a nightmare of trees

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another day of snow my jurassic layer

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the only sound that’s come out of me all day firefly

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at this point i just assumed they come alive at night

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the string attached to me unraveling bare branches

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far enough into it dyslexic spring

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the sound of water i enter the spider’s dream

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walrus with its mouth wide open war statistics

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outweighed by the butterfly’s thought

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the word god being eaten by a field of robins

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§ One Response to SCOTT METZ ant ant ant ant ant nine

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