ant5

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the games are over

a chill wind washes

against the hills

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my thought

finds you from

the opposite direction

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the rest of the day

at the end of

a blue pen

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summer’s last flies

on the back

of my head

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you come back

the apple slices

have browned

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even you

start talking

about the moon

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river mist

diffuse

at the tops of hills

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the crows

dicker

in the parking lot

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I never see

you by

the vegetables

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