last home

By Anton Frost


the hills look hard as burnt bread
the palms wave their chapped leaves
and for a moment no cars go by.

   the boulevard curves
   toward where nobody goes.

there are moments in places
where silence gets deposited
like blue beads in a wooden bowl.

the hills look good
beneath the clouds coming in
off the water
but they are so far away.

    you look at your hands
    as a way of remembering
    the glass doorknob
    the blue pencil and
    the dirt
    in the flowerpot
    of your last home.

the way
things become unreachable
beneath their surfaces.

   what they are hesitates.
   they body between being made
   and being changed.

on the other side of the hills
water pitches light
and from here

   whether imagined or real
   you smell salt
   and what happens next


Anton Frost lives in California.

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