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left on the fender

peach blossoms

knocked loose

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she suspects

you don’t believe

she saw a fox

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the gnats will remain

in the restroom

for the weekend

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pock marks

in the concrete

wet with melted hail

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bag of sugar

ants leave a trail of

even smaller grains

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it’s hard to explain

the sign that says

the heath

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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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