ant5

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you can’t have

my soul I gave it

to John Fahey

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my amygdala

returns with

some blunt objects

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back when

your only problem

was verbs

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what we’ve cobbled

from our ruins

lets in the wind

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the mist sits

like soft serve

on the green hills

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wet under

the sheets

we negotiate

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you see the fly

again and decide

he’s not so well

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a lot of thoughts

during the tea’s

last minute

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that gift

doesn’t go

under that tree

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steady rain

the cat sends

his guests away

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