ant5

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the chips

from the blue plate

have reached the sea

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fly on the desk

looks like the one

at home

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first signs

you’re a

conifer

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in the shower

I smell like

the soup you made

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I waited

thirty years

to use that word

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•

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one of your

eyes likes

me better

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we live like

astronauts

in our home

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no egg from

the molting

speckled hen

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still and warm

at the center of

the evening storm

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the sail

on the wind chime

stirs soundlessly

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