ant5

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the noisy frog

calls me

from the roses

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on the gauze

that constitutes the ghost

beetle’s back

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over my farm

the amateurs

fly their planes

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the full moon

waits

you out

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in the tops of

the trees the mist

lit by the sun

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shipwrecked

on the table

moth eaten lamps

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faint shadows

of fingernails

don’t pick through the mix

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the evening chill

finds your

short socks

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