ant5

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the garlic press

seems heavier

in the morning

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incandescent light

I know what you are

going to say

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fires

everything is made

of ash

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disentangling

a ritual I find

myself

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in line

she teaches you

a French word

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homogeneity

we cut things

in half

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early January

we dig holes for

animal bodies

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sick with stories

I listen to fog

move through grass

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recriminations

the moon burns

through the fog

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the steam

from the kettle

a confluence of streams

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