ant5

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you start

to have a story

it doesn’t go well

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as it darkens

we drift to

different rooms

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the light says

autumn even though

it’s hot

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the drawings

of a ten year old

I no longer know

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the soap

no one uses

glistens with condensation

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moths

hover above

the still fly

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billowing

web opaque with

the dust of weeds

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they wait

for the grain

to spray from your hand

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without flies

the quiet of

a false orange autumn

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