ant5

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I follow

your heat beneath

your clothes

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behind the curtain

the stars ping

against the glass

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tell the frogs

maybe December’s

a place

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the stiff blue

grass grows soft

with rain

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we spend

more time with

the crossed out words

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we keep

forgetting to stay

in the same room

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we learn

to live with

exclamation points

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TVs murmur

in other rooms

I slice red potatoes

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before they arrive

I talk to

the pumpkin

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days

of ice dust

enough for a snow

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