CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant ten

December 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Cucumbers Are Related To Lemons

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you return with

a second bottle it’s cheaper

and goes with fewer foods

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an automated message

from the library

it cheers me up

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tucked in her back

pocket a pink packet

of artificial sweetener

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looking at the veins on

your hands I think about

the planet Neptune

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on the blanket on

the grass a few magazines

their different odors

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waking in a strange bed

without my pants

a seagull at the window

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above the bowl of

apples a mosquito

slow from the blood

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swollen in the shallow

creek a novel open

near the center

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a love letter to

the butterfly gods with

strategic misspellings

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dusk turns gray and

hazy and breaks off into

several angry girls

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the pill in my pocket

looks smaller

than it did this morning

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the breakfast special

missing a few letters

not quite spring

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at the urinals

we talk about our allergies

the war loses ground

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a weed in bloom where

the fence’s torn back

the links gleam

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the rain sounds

different when I lean my

head against your head

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the fly that kept me

up all night I find

him on the shelf

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in the parking lot she

notices the two notes

stuck to my door

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in a small white bowl

the lentils

no one is going to cook

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looped over itself

once a rubberband in

the drinking fountain drain

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the smell of heather under

the bridge the black water

makes no sound

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she says it’s like

eating a pecan after

having walnuts

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one tied to the other

a pair of shoelaces

floating down the river

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it’s been about

a year she suggests

you take a vitamin

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when I look back

the light is gone from

the blue pine

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your sock in the corner

of the closet a thin shoot

sprouting from it

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the office at midnight

a grain of rice

in my chair

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one light on at

the laundromat a blue towel

left on a dryer

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while he’s talking

to the cop she

eats his hot dog

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its view obstructed

by blossoms the room

a little darker

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we barely speak

she leaves me a pear

she picked on a farm

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just beyond the reach

of the light the plum

sags on one side

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I meet the twin she

never mentioned the mist

lit briefly by the sun

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the doctor’s office

a magazine left open

face down on the couch

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blown down by the wind

stiff white washcloths

holding their shape

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the blue jays have a spat

some cherry pits left on

a three of spades

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the girls on the bus

discuss places

on their bodies

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a headline declares

the war goes badly the red

umbrellas closed up

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on the toilet she

mentions that cucumbers are

related to lemons

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in the dust in

the corner the curling

tops of tea packets

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reading the lives

of great people I shave

a little more frequently

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pieces of the moth

that got stuck in the envelope

slide out

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lit briefly by

headlights a tree at

the edge of the woods

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other analogous

rifts in your story

about the plums

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the slow guy who

just got fired he asks me

if I’ve seen a bear

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the lump in the pillowcase

a pair of her panties

I’ve never seen

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we get home from

our trip the brown crayon

we left on the table

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the hand that always

aches a girl wants to talk

about long division

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in the old peppermint

tin pencil shavings we

argue about pronouns

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the anguish of snails

something to do with

fluorescent light

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a screen door slams

shut the scent of

approaching rain

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left on her desk

three paper cups

each with a little water

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warm rain the homeless

guy offers me a cookie

from his pocket

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my landlord who doesn’t

like crows she opens

the door without knocking

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a cool August evening

in the shopping cart

some crushed daisies

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following me from room

to room a gnat tries

to get in my mouth

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a note from ten

years ago says you’re

going to the store

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a patch on the road

where the streetlight’s out

the sound of moths

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rug burns on my knees

I feel them in line

at the post office

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a chair on fire

in the dumpster melts

the snow as it falls

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some noise in

the dark kitchen it

must be the potatoes

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