Saturday, January 15, 2011

o'clock

the spiraling
nine

of the clock
turns
into the crux

of hours
and universes
as hoofs
mingle

with light
trampling dust.

the original
second is
of the minutiae
and of hinged

lines of
touch, of hands
of body of
thin air.

a silent coiled
   numeral

in the three-quarter
oblivion

of a failed circular
   flourish
  shapes from silence
  the favorable angling
     light

resuming
only
    from inner waves
      and tidal intuition

o'clock.

--Anton Frost is a poet living in Grand Haven, Michigan.

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