Anton Frost

the inside

the inside of the moment
between peaks

found, as in
a way and place to fit

the bones of hands inside hands
inside hands

the plastic whispering


pull bread apart

to watch white air
wipe surfaces clear

the way water pours
over anything




walking through rooms
you leave behind

boundaries of red string,
wet footprints,
peach pits where your words

your legs cross, uncross.
i sense aftertaste.
you walk with all of your body.

it thrums rather than appears,
floats rather than exists.
your silence that follows your
voice. like a cat lured
by the sound of poured milk.

inside a sleeve, your heartbeat.
inside stone, the curve of your arm.

my house fills with statues.
your loosewater hair
is what i want to touch

while one statue sits on a haybale
in the barn,
another stands in the door,
blocking my way. all i can do
is rest my chin on your shoulder,
look in.

in the house two statues sit
at the piano
sustaining one endless chord.

none of your statues have eyes,
hair covers them or you
are looking away.

one sits at the table, writing a letter.
i touch its elbow cantilevered
over the table-edge
and read,

it's been so long.

all your statues.
a sense of a single thing,
then another shedding.

the sun has gone down,
i look out the window.
a statue leans over the small pond,
pointing at a fish
in the ice.

i am tired of your statues,
your image you leave everywhere,
like shirts you once wore
but no longer.

i am tired. i go to bed.
a statue sits on the edge of the mattress,
caressing the space above the pillow.

i lie down and ease my head under its fingers
so they just barely touch my temple.

i fall asleep like that,
like a statue

that's fallen and nothing
can right it

Anton Frost lives in La Mirada, California.
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