Anton Frost

Countryside

the center of the universe
is far away

and my heart
is a countryside of roots.

the moon is a bread-crumb
as the sky
turns to nothing.

i can hear the drumming
of water falling
onto rock,

i hear something
like a pulse
in the open cupboard.

my head
is a closed space.
it is an
occupied shell.

remembering
is like
watching a woman
from a distance
walking both toward me
  and away from me.

it occurs
it is hard
to remember.

between days
and only sometimes
we remember we
have
more than
just memories.

my cupboards are empty
shells, repeating
the pulse of my ears.

my heart
is a diorama
of a universe
that is all center.

it is your silhouette;
it is me trying to decide
if you're walking toward me
or away from me.

- -

rainy

alone in my mouth
a bruised plum of light

something that i am
hangs on
like a drop of water

on a thin branch
that’s black with rain

it reminds me there is a bell
crashing
like you breathe

like you wouldn’t believe

the rain is a blue plate
of peas

somewhere in space
where the earth once was

my mother’s voice
floats says

you sit there
until it’s finished

peas like drops of rain
gleaming and tight

alone in my mouth
i wait out the pouring

i lean out
with my wet face

it smiles
so i smile too

the rain is riding the river
like it’s a horse

i want to be the rain so bad
the river
the horse it could be
i could be

instead i stand all alone under my awning
like the tongue of a bell

overhead a window
gets shoved open

the sun is still shining
someone says

their own mouth
bruised
too

- -

table window

when she turns
away

i swap our straws
and drink.

- -

Anton Frost, um dos poetas no número 2 da The Istanbul Review (o que a Granta Portugal poderia ser mas não é, independente).