Why can my life
from time to time

not fade
to black?

I long for a certain sort of reprieve,
for the baritone aspects

of a relief
that seems final,

but which you can come out of
once you’re ready

for more of
whatever the world

doles out.

The closest I’ve gotten
is an overslept

but even that

was filled with strange dreams,
irregular breathing

and a sharp diagonal

light. Still in bed
I look out my window,

the height from the street
momentarily lends

a mild vertigo.

I just want the night to last
a little longer,

I think,
trying to go back

to sleep
and failing.

Anton Frost


Anton Frost has appeared in Parcel, Verdad, The Bacon Review, Grasslimb, and elsewhere. He lives in Grand Haven, Michigan.

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