ant5

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the way the tracks

smell after the train

has passed

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leans itself out

of its pot the plant

by the window

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one item

gets to be

its own list

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the long sap

of the few cones

left on the branch

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it’s probably

not the moon

then

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put the olives

back there’s

already olives

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the morning fog

keeps us

indoors

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a lot of thumbs

have darkened

the edges

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you take it back

the napkin in

the rag pile

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