ant5

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we come

home to

fog

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stone staircase lions

one has a beard of

white lichen

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the mist

sitting on top of the trees

makes hills of its own

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it’s a kind

of seed our extra

second of light

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the clock chain

sharp on

my icy fingers

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you accuse

the cashier of being

an elf

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don’t tell my wife

I leave a bit of grain

for the mice

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moongazing

I step back into

my quiet goats

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where the gears

no longer turn

a web fresh with flies

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in the back

of your mind

all the toys that never worked

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