ant5

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tips of the pine

ridge line

under fog

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the yellow napkin

you smashed the ants with

smells like smashed ants

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at the back

of the book

his poems of illness

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I find

it’s dark in this

part of the house too

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blurry fish tank

the snails have yet

to get to work

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I put my key

in the wrong car

and it’s stuck

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no apparent reason

for the five things

left in the sink

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in stark light

she squints while

bouncing her knee

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