ant5

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dusk

a few islands

in the clouds

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we leave

the blown over

trees blown over

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the hens’

wetness heavy

in the coop

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a ring of

light fades into

the green grass

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it’s hard

to scan a bag

of pinecones

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the slight imprint

of elastic across

your sacrum

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they call it

tickling

the witch

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white taffy

fog woven through

the orchard

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the flashlight

dims as the dog

runs off

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the temperature

drops turns

everything purple

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