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scent of warm rain

on a day you don’t

see anyone

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tucked in corners

whispers and

receipts

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my old cat

chooses Buson

for a pillow

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the dead bird

gets the double bag

that cost the same as one

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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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