lakelights
by Anton Frost
i.
tonight
the lake drank what was daylight,
what’s now just boats whirring
and going blind
and pale sand trying to close its eyes.
the waves come in
like dogs,
falling as they run,
almost howling,
upset
as if the earth were spinning too fast
and creating them
only by leaving them behind.
ii.
tonight
i am east of the entire world.
unsmiling, unaware,
everything makes me.
it’s okay,
watching how the boats
are only ever halfway in the water.
iii.
the lake trembles,
learns to open,
to remain skinless,
to halve itself,
to caress remainders.
iv.
i step along waters
that are pure dune,
pure stone–
the same inside
and out–
almost human.
v.
in the dark
a pink haze floats over the few hundred miles
of wet dark
to a city
bright and invisible,
shedding light as if it were burning,
neons, streetlights
and a million nearly similar pangs
smoothing out like water.
vi.
i stand a few hundred miles from myself,
from what touches and expects.
vii.
michigan edges into the water.
i slow,
and make nothing.
viii.
pure water separates me.
to swim, to reach everything
as a city burns its thoughts.
ix.
the waves eat fish
as if alive,
in need.
i slip my hands into
three-dimensional cold
each hand
like reflected light,
like a fish
swimming around,
not drowning
at all.
_______________
Anton Frost is a poet living in Grand Haven, Michigan.
