ant5

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damp Sunday

we hide from time

in the shed

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3am

your foot starts

rummaging around

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dove colored clouds

tearing on

the wooden fences

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late summer

weeds in the rock pile

still green

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the fly

on my eyebrow

I feel his limbs

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deep beneath the hay

a phone book

now solid

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August

petrichor

with a tang

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after the heat

rain is mist

moving downward

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we find

blood and bits

of wire

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the time

of night

we hear horses

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