ant5

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no the fog

won’t go

down the drain

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in the corner

of your eye

a creature you made

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to their chagrin

the hens keep

you from walking

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fog seems

to emanate from

the birch

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tears in the paper

turn it into

a map

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barest of pear

buds enveloped

by ice

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tendrils of bread

hold on to

the knife

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in the dark

rich with

salt

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on closer

inspection

there are thorns

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floating eggs

we say

goodbye

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