ant5

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Sunday night

we close the kitchen

a third time

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Medusa

didn’t wear

glasses

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what’s left

of the hay spread

on the highway

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not a burr

in your sock

narrow spring from a pen

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you find a smudged

thumbprint in

your new book

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bleached and crunchy

the grass gives way to

tiny white flowers

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at the side of

the highway a bathtub

with feet

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passing the pool light

the blue ball

turns the room blue

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they flash in the sun

out of the shade

cliffside swifts

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sunken in the ground

wooden rocker

now a chair

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