ant5

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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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curling ribbons

she discusses

her technique

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the shirt you

slept in smells

of the ocean

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Truman Capote

still on the desk

from last year

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