ant5

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becoming an island

for flies I miss

the winter fly

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you slip through

a fold in

the miasma of town

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inches of

the green river take

some of them away

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captured in droplets

on its sides

the water fills the jar

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green mirror

you look for

the odometer

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dead fawn

eastbound traffic

backed up for miles

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the phone

in her back pocket

tightens the curves

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morning dove

everywhere you look

he isn’t there

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in a corner of the barn

the goats hold back

the barking dog

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