ant5

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a few seashells

on empty soap

boxes

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a feather

rushes into

the elevator

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still enough

to hear

the crow’s wing

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the cat’s white

feet through

the corrugated plastic

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pushing grains of salt

up from the gap in

the table an ant

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she says

you reek of

superstitions

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the chips

from the blue plate

have reached the sea

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fly on the desk

looks like the one

at home

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first signs

you’re a

conifer

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in the shower

I smell like

the soup you made

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