ant5

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back home

the clock’s weight

stopped by a stool

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left on the charred

bank of the river

chimneys

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curtain of mist

not sure which side

of it we’re on

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the driving hail

keeps us silent

at dusk

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asleep in a chair

my wife moves her fingers

like a catcher

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edge of the pond

camellias that fell

without opening

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in the charred clearing

no burnt

path in

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he says

the dog’s only friendly

if you touch her

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soon I will be

seventy

percent clouds

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floating pine needles

and gold seed cones

catch the sunlight

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