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