ant5

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I tell him

probably no snipers

in the fog

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a cleft in the rocks

wisps of mist

linger

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fog

across the valley

our dwellings are ships

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you find

you have

all the blue dots

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back on the surface

everyone’s

gone

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she says

you’ve been fooled

by the quince

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the mail

full of

numbers

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left at an angle

on the stairs

the spruce acclimates

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the plinking

of grain

frenzies the goats

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gingerly

we step into

the kiln

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