By Anton Frost

all the city’s fallen leaves
are like horses
broken in the streets
lovers meet in quiet places
or create them if necessary
the rain falls
like light would
if it weren’t afraid
to exist
we sat in the one patch left
of the old olive grove
maybe waiting for a chalk-mark
in the sky
or dreading a lunar eclipse
maybe mulling over griefs
how the prophets sank
beneath the surfaces
the black and white
pebbles seemed about to breach
the gloss of the stream
where we were

but are
no longer.


Anton Frost has appeared in Verdad, ditch, Otoliths, Grasslimb, Third Wednesday, and Parcel. He lives on the coast of Lake Michigan.

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