the speed of light
being what it is
your whole body
is afterimage,
the entire pale
cello of you crossing
then uncrossing your legs–
the whole wilderness of you
a sudden and exact history,
the sex in the poem of you
a pulling apart
of libraries for the right ache
between words.
the speed of light being
what it is
a touch undoes the folklore
as with any spell.
a bite into your shoulder
a loose knuckle grazing your hip
and the open pear of
your body
turns, a bell tolling
in technicolor,
pleads
be long, be long
to the infinitesimal wedge
of paleperfect nothing
between nerve ending
and fingertip.
a joint cracks
as you clench then unclose your fist
and I imagine I’ve just
snapped the stem
off a pear
as if I were beheading sadness.
I smile
and you see it
only too late
the speed of light
being what it is
I am doing something else
with my lips
now
Anton Frost has appeared in Verdad, Parcel, The Bacon Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Michigan.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: Anton Frost, e-zine, ezine, hyperbole, longing, melancholy, melancholy hyperbole, pear, poem, poet, poetry, submit
Melancholy Hyperbole 