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anthonyframe.bsky.social
Anthony Frame
@anthonyframe.bsky.social
1.8K followers 1.5K following 250 posts
Poet in Residence at Frame's Pest Control. Toriphile. X-Men fanatic. Editor/Publisher glasspoetry.bsky.social . Book: Main Street Rag. Chapbook: Sibling Rivalry Press.

http://www.glass-poetry.com/anthonyframe.html
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anthonyframe.bsky.social
Anthony Frame @anthonyframe.bsky.social · Oct 21
For anyone who needs it, here's a hug from our garden 💛
Photo of a recently pulled carrot that looks like two carrots hugging each other.
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Just started Katabasis by R.F. Kuang and... wow this is a fun read.
November 26, 2025 at 12:40 AM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
davidjbauman.bsky.social
A note by @anthonyframe.bsky.social on Threads reminded me: November deadlines. Are not in my budget due to the adding up of submission fees. I know it’s an evil empire, but Google forms or just email would work fine. I’ve used email as an editor just fine.
November 25, 2025 at 8:52 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
casual reminder that saying you're interested in submissions from underprivileged and underrepresented writers falls a little flat when you're also charging folks to submit
anthonyframe.bsky.social Anthony Frame @anthonyframe.bsky.social · 2d
literally just checked 25 journals I was going to submit to and every one of them charges a fee.
November 24, 2025 at 4:37 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
literally just checked 25 journals I was going to submit to and every one of them charges a fee.
November 24, 2025 at 4:08 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
gods I hate Submitable
November 7, 2025 at 4:11 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
glasspoetry.bsky.social
Today on Glass!

"Surrender" by Erin Wilson!

www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html
Image of a leaf with a drop of dew Text: We met at the intersection of frost and fruit. "Surrender" Erin Wilson
November 5, 2025 at 1:30 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Hey hivemind - I'm working on a meeting agenda for my crew of pest control technicians &, because I'm me, I wanna add some poetry.

Soooo --

Favorite poems about work? Preferably not ones called "What Work Is" by Philip Levine.

(yes, I love that poem, but I've already bugged my techs with it lol)
October 29, 2025 at 10:57 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
New office pets!
Tarantula in a tarantula pen with a sign behind that says "Bee happy" Tarantula in a tarantula pen with a sign behind that says "Bee"
October 28, 2025 at 1:28 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
wait he has a tattoo of what where
a cartoon of a robot that says that 's it i 'm out
Alt: a cartoon of a robot that says that 's it i 'm out
media.tenor.com
October 22, 2025 at 5:21 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
jillkitchen.bsky.social
"she says, “Be here with me.” But I’m not,
I’m thirteen, singing in the shower, thinking about supernovas." I love this piece and all of the gorgeous layering!
October 21, 2025 at 2:03 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
sarahmillswrites.bsky.social
I want to scream like a star exploding

@anthonyframe.bsky.social in @asteralesjournal.bsky.social ✨
1.4 Frame-Squillante — Asterales: A Journal of Arts and Letters
www.asteralesjournal.com
October 21, 2025 at 2:49 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
anthonyframe.bsky.social
ICYMI ⬇️ ⬇️
anthonyframe.bsky.social Anthony Frame @anthonyframe.bsky.social · Oct 20
OMG! Thanks @djvorreyer.bsky.social & Rachel Bunting for incl my poem, "Reading @rosebudbenoni.bsky.social's Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS" While Listening to Tori Amos' Cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" During the Total Solar Eclipse" in the new @asteralesjournal.bsky.social!

tinyurl.com/23fn5cp6
Reading Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS While Listening to Tori Amos’ Cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” During the Total Solar Eclipse Anthony Frame - for Chris Cornell I understand, sun: every now and then, I want to disappear, too. I’m determined to hear the birds, the soft bellows of their throats anchoring this moment. Lost and long, I steal this day with my wife, holding hands as we stumble along the unfinished path through the garden. We’re told not to look directly so we look at each other or we close our eyes and listen, sunrays washing our arms. There’s a part of me that wants to blast “Black Hole Sun” on the record player but she says, “Be here with me.” But I’m not, I’m thirteen, singing in the shower, thinking about supernovas. The moon is on the move, shadows starting to startle the birds. As the garden starts to silence, I think, Is this what it’s like to hear a god? I want to scream like a star exploding, but instead I sit and hold my wife’s hand and wait. Perhaps, we need a new cosmology, a new language, a new sequence of mysteries. As a child, I wanted to disappear, to separate into droplets of air, rinsed clean and clear. Sometimes, I’ve wanted to shatter so bright my light would reach the edges of the galaxy. The sun seems to dissolve behind the moon and the silence covers us but it lasts just under two minutes and then, like a birth, the birds start singing again. Every now and then, I’ve wanted my voice to rise so high it might achieve escape velocity. I start to hum, knowing these sounds I hope to harvest can’t go on forever, some of the waves, faced off against friction, will dissipate. But some will shift, boiling beneath the atmosphere, turning themselves around until they turn into heat. My wife puts her hand on my chest to still me. The sun is a squall of fire singing itself raw within a vacuum, but the moon holds its voice beneath its surface. I lean against my wife, wordless, Cover of Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS Tori Amos' Cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart Soundgarden Black Hole Sun LP
October 20, 2025 at 8:14 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
ICYMI ⬇️ ⬇️
anthonyframe.bsky.social Anthony Frame @anthonyframe.bsky.social · Oct 20
OMG! Thanks @djvorreyer.bsky.social & Rachel Bunting for incl my poem, "Reading @rosebudbenoni.bsky.social's Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS" While Listening to Tori Amos' Cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" During the Total Solar Eclipse" in the new @asteralesjournal.bsky.social!

tinyurl.com/23fn5cp6
Reading Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS While Listening to Tori Amos’ Cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” During the Total Solar Eclipse Anthony Frame - for Chris Cornell I understand, sun: every now and then, I want to disappear, too. I’m determined to hear the birds, the soft bellows of their throats anchoring this moment. Lost and long, I steal this day with my wife, holding hands as we stumble along the unfinished path through the garden. We’re told not to look directly so we look at each other or we close our eyes and listen, sunrays washing our arms. There’s a part of me that wants to blast “Black Hole Sun” on the record player but she says, “Be here with me.” But I’m not, I’m thirteen, singing in the shower, thinking about supernovas. The moon is on the move, shadows starting to startle the birds. As the garden starts to silence, I think, Is this what it’s like to hear a god? I want to scream like a star exploding, but instead I sit and hold my wife’s hand and wait. Perhaps, we need a new cosmology, a new language, a new sequence of mysteries. As a child, I wanted to disappear, to separate into droplets of air, rinsed clean and clear. Sometimes, I’ve wanted to shatter so bright my light would reach the edges of the galaxy. The sun seems to dissolve behind the moon and the silence covers us but it lasts just under two minutes and then, like a birth, the birds start singing again. Every now and then, I’ve wanted my voice to rise so high it might achieve escape velocity. I start to hum, knowing these sounds I hope to harvest can’t go on forever, some of the waves, faced off against friction, will dissipate. But some will shift, boiling beneath the atmosphere, turning themselves around until they turn into heat. My wife puts her hand on my chest to still me. The sun is a squall of fire singing itself raw within a vacuum, but the moon holds its voice beneath its surface. I lean against my wife, wordless, Cover of Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS Tori Amos' Cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart Soundgarden Black Hole Sun LP
October 20, 2025 at 8:14 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
anthonyframe.bsky.social
OMG! Thanks @djvorreyer.bsky.social & Rachel Bunting for incl my poem, "Reading @rosebudbenoni.bsky.social's Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS" While Listening to Tori Amos' Cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" During the Total Solar Eclipse" in the new @asteralesjournal.bsky.social!

tinyurl.com/23fn5cp6
Reading Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS While Listening to Tori Amos’ Cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” During the Total Solar Eclipse Anthony Frame - for Chris Cornell I understand, sun: every now and then, I want to disappear, too. I’m determined to hear the birds, the soft bellows of their throats anchoring this moment. Lost and long, I steal this day with my wife, holding hands as we stumble along the unfinished path through the garden. We’re told not to look directly so we look at each other or we close our eyes and listen, sunrays washing our arms. There’s a part of me that wants to blast “Black Hole Sun” on the record player but she says, “Be here with me.” But I’m not, I’m thirteen, singing in the shower, thinking about supernovas. The moon is on the move, shadows starting to startle the birds. As the garden starts to silence, I think, Is this what it’s like to hear a god? I want to scream like a star exploding, but instead I sit and hold my wife’s hand and wait. Perhaps, we need a new cosmology, a new language, a new sequence of mysteries. As a child, I wanted to disappear, to separate into droplets of air, rinsed clean and clear. Sometimes, I’ve wanted to shatter so bright my light would reach the edges of the galaxy. The sun seems to dissolve behind the moon and the silence covers us but it lasts just under two minutes and then, like a birth, the birds start singing again. Every now and then, I’ve wanted my voice to rise so high it might achieve escape velocity. I start to hum, knowing these sounds I hope to harvest can’t go on forever, some of the waves, faced off against friction, will dissipate. But some will shift, boiling beneath the atmosphere, turning themselves around until they turn into heat. My wife puts her hand on my chest to still me. The sun is a squall of fire singing itself raw within a vacuum, but the moon holds its voice beneath its surface. I lean against my wife, wordless, Cover of Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS Tori Amos' Cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart Soundgarden Black Hole Sun LP
October 20, 2025 at 2:48 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
djvorreyer.bsky.social
Issue 4 is live! @willmusgrove.bsky.social @charlesjensen.bsky.social @anthonyframe.bsky.social @jillkitchen.bsky.social @susanbarryschulz.com @sheilasquill.bsky.social and so many more...
asteralesjournal.bsky.social Asterales: A Journal of Arts & Letters @asteralesjournal.bsky.social · Oct 20
It’s here! Issue 4 is live today, featuring work from Sean Cho A, Sarah Mills, Allison Blevins, Jill Kitchen, Anthony Frame, Will Musgrove, Charles Jensen, Susan Barry-Schulz, Julia Biggs, Sheila Squillante, and Vishaal! #poetry #prose #visualart #literaryjournal #asterales

tinyurl.com/5h25zt3c
October 20, 2025 at 3:08 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
OMG! Thanks @djvorreyer.bsky.social & Rachel Bunting for incl my poem, "Reading @rosebudbenoni.bsky.social's Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS" While Listening to Tori Amos' Cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" During the Total Solar Eclipse" in the new @asteralesjournal.bsky.social!

tinyurl.com/23fn5cp6
Reading Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS While Listening to Tori Amos’ Cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” During the Total Solar Eclipse Anthony Frame - for Chris Cornell I understand, sun: every now and then, I want to disappear, too. I’m determined to hear the birds, the soft bellows of their throats anchoring this moment. Lost and long, I steal this day with my wife, holding hands as we stumble along the unfinished path through the garden. We’re told not to look directly so we look at each other or we close our eyes and listen, sunrays washing our arms. There’s a part of me that wants to blast “Black Hole Sun” on the record player but she says, “Be here with me.” But I’m not, I’m thirteen, singing in the shower, thinking about supernovas. The moon is on the move, shadows starting to startle the birds. As the garden starts to silence, I think, Is this what it’s like to hear a god? I want to scream like a star exploding, but instead I sit and hold my wife’s hand and wait. Perhaps, we need a new cosmology, a new language, a new sequence of mysteries. As a child, I wanted to disappear, to separate into droplets of air, rinsed clean and clear. Sometimes, I’ve wanted to shatter so bright my light would reach the edges of the galaxy. The sun seems to dissolve behind the moon and the silence covers us but it lasts just under two minutes and then, like a birth, the birds start singing again. Every now and then, I’ve wanted my voice to rise so high it might achieve escape velocity. I start to hum, knowing these sounds I hope to harvest can’t go on forever, some of the waves, faced off against friction, will dissipate. But some will shift, boiling beneath the atmosphere, turning themselves around until they turn into heat. My wife puts her hand on my chest to still me. The sun is a squall of fire singing itself raw within a vacuum, but the moon holds its voice beneath its surface. I lean against my wife, wordless, Cover of Rosebud Ben-Oni’s Turn Around, BRXGHT XYXS Tori Amos' Cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart Soundgarden Black Hole Sun LP
October 20, 2025 at 2:48 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
🔥 🔥 🔥
glasspoetry.bsky.social Glass Poetry Press @glasspoetry.bsky.social · Oct 8
Today on Glass!

"with my back to the city" by Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey (@esmepromise.bsky.social)!

www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html
Image of fire Text: So I will meet you at the summit. Dirt in my stomach — gardens of it. Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey with my back to the city https://www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html
October 8, 2025 at 2:23 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
how the hell am I supposed to quit smoking when I'm in the midst of this fascist takeover AND while Billie Corgan thinks he can drain my bank account just so he can remind me I'm now the age of everyone I stuck my rage in a cage for when I was a tiny impressionable child ffs I really really want a c
Countdown to Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness 30th Anniversary Edition
October 3, 2025 at 3:45 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Tell your friends!

Or tell that file in your documents, you know the one, the one you never tell anyone about, called X-Files Poems or What Kind of World Will We Leave for Keith Richards: Poems, or Everything Was Great Until I Watched A Quiet Place 2.

You know I like the weird manuscripts 😬
September 29, 2025 at 11:18 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Today, I've cut back from 2 cigarettes an hour, to 1 every two hours.

Also today, I haven't yelled at anyone.

Yet.
September 25, 2025 at 4:58 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
I'm gonna have a buuuuusy September 😂

Make it even busier, friends ⬇️ ⬇️
August 31, 2025 at 8:27 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Looks like I get to, once again, play everyone's favorite game:

Is That My Respirator's Strap I'm Feeling Behind My Ear or Is It A Cockroach?

Now if I could just figure out how to win... 😶
August 20, 2025 at 3:28 PM
Reposted by Anthony Frame
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Really thrilled to have a long poem with a title too long to fit in one of these posts in the new issue of Untelling. Many thanks to editor Melissa Helton and The Hindman Settlement School for including "Somewhere, Someone Must Know the Ending, or I Turned 42 Today; My Beard Is Filling..."
Somewhere, Someone Must Know the Ending, or I Turned 42 Today; My Beard Is Filling With Wizard-White Hairs; My Dulcimer Sits Dusty in the Living Room Corner; the Laundry and Dishes Are Piling Up Again; I Thought I Was Reading a Biography of Whitman but It’s Been More Like a Paperweight for the Past Four Months; I Haven’t Written Anything in Over a Year; and I’m Starting to Think That, Maybe, I Need to Start Thinking About Someone Other Than Myself There’s a boy whose family moved in to the house next door last week, and he has spent the last hour jumping on his trampoline. There’s a goldendoodle puppy chasing the air that surrounds the boy. The parents in the house behind the boy's sing a nonsense song to their toddler while their five-year-old plays with a tiny basketball set. There’s a calendula in my wife’s garden filled with aphids and filled with ants farming those aphids for honeydew. The ants have such care as they carry the aphids in their mouths, placing them along the stem, under the leaves, as away as possible from the inevitable rain. There’s a salvia that should have been divided a month ago. The veteran down the street listens to a classic rock mix as he washes the matching brilliant black Harleys he and his wife own. And the birds – O, the birds! – the birds carrying the wind of everywhere they’ve been during their migrations stop at our bird bath, a few splashes before hopping through our yard in search of the abundant worms. The birds don’t mind us and we stand in wonder before them. The stars are each in their kingdom, hidden for now beyond the big unbroken sky. My wife on her kneeler, hunched over the garden path, pulls creeping charlie from between the pavers. There are enough fragments of creeping charlie left behind in the soil for their return in a few weeks. I’m meant to be present in the moment, the feel of the dirt on my cracked hands, the wind blowing my hair over my eyes, the dribble of the little mechanized fountain that draws the neighborhood wildlife to us. The man who molested me lives in my head, but he is not alone. This catalogue of mercies from our well-fed Earth, chives and pill bugs and lilies of the valley and robins, the neighbor boy and his dog, the dozen new perennials my wife ordered from the other end of the state – and O, what names! Penstemon and agastache and baptisia and astilbe! – and, when they arrived, secure in their cardboard boxes, she carefully dug and enriched all twelve holes and now they’re here, growing, photosynthesizing, ready soon to open their petals like a child’s eyes. All of it, here in my head, jostling for position, for attention, bouncing between corneas and optical nerves and cortex, strolling on a paved path of photoreceptors. There are honeybees and, tonight, back in their hive, they’ll hug each other as they sleep. Some may stay too long, may get too tired to journey home and decide, instead, to sleep inside our flowers. The first kohlrabi stem is plump and glossy and ready for picking. There’s an ivy cutting growing roots in a small glass of water on a window sill in my wife’s craft room. The air plant, soil-less and free, hangs as if in flight from the kitchen ceiling, ready to collect every particle of life it needs just from the house’s humid air. In the native corner of the garden, the viburnum is making plans to produce berries. Soon, so soon, it’ll only take a couple more years. I’m meant to be present in the moment, my shoes wet from the dewy grass, my knees crunching as I squat down to grab a handful of weeds, my back sore in the glorious way only a day working in the yard can bring. Someone has taught the squirrels to beg and they do it well. I’m told my shatterstar brain is actually a superpower and I’m trying to embrace the excitable distractibility that makes me unable to see the oven mitts left on the microwave and the wide open deep freeze door, its melted frost dripping along the garage floor, the way I must speak my intentions to the world as if an incantation. Yesterday, at the grocery store, a woman sneezed in the bread aisle and I had a panic attack while trying to find a decent peach. I’m meant to be present in the moment, to breathe with the maple tree in the neighbor’s yard, to catch the fragments of light filtering through the ferns, to look long enough to see the coloring of the hummingbird as it darts from the blooming sage to the feeder to the telephone wire bisecting our corner of sky. I promise the goddess in the garden that every pinch of forgiveness I’ve asked for will be paid back again and again and again. Somewhere, someone is writing a song or a novella or lifting a baby from its crib, its wrinkled little legs flapping like wrinkled little wings. I hope that baby isn’t crying. I hope that someone, halfway across the world, feeling the chill of the season opposite mine, is watching the sky, wondering about the same stars I’m desperate to see this evening. I hope that a toad or a snake moves in to our yard and startles me as it basks in morning light. I hope that those dandelion seeds I blew last month landed somewhere moist and soft. I hope the boy next door sleeps easy, his dog at the foot of his bed, the moonlight through his window casting a kaleidoscope across his eyes. I hope that whoever is reading this is calm, sitting on a couch or in a chair or flat-backed in bed while someone they love is down the hall humming a song that reminds them, both of them, of being a child and running through grass, chasing the birds just to see them fly. I hope. Again. I hope.
August 15, 2025 at 11:31 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
Really thrilled to have a long poem with a title too long to fit in one of these posts in the new issue of Untelling. Many thanks to editor Melissa Helton and The Hindman Settlement School for including "Somewhere, Someone Must Know the Ending, or I Turned 42 Today; My Beard Is Filling..."
Somewhere, Someone Must Know the Ending, or I Turned 42 Today; My Beard Is Filling With Wizard-White Hairs; My Dulcimer Sits Dusty in the Living Room Corner; the Laundry and Dishes Are Piling Up Again; I Thought I Was Reading a Biography of Whitman but It’s Been More Like a Paperweight for the Past Four Months; I Haven’t Written Anything in Over a Year; and I’m Starting to Think That, Maybe, I Need to Start Thinking About Someone Other Than Myself There’s a boy whose family moved in to the house next door last week, and he has spent the last hour jumping on his trampoline. There’s a goldendoodle puppy chasing the air that surrounds the boy. The parents in the house behind the boy's sing a nonsense song to their toddler while their five-year-old plays with a tiny basketball set. There’s a calendula in my wife’s garden filled with aphids and filled with ants farming those aphids for honeydew. The ants have such care as they carry the aphids in their mouths, placing them along the stem, under the leaves, as away as possible from the inevitable rain. There’s a salvia that should have been divided a month ago. The veteran down the street listens to a classic rock mix as he washes the matching brilliant black Harleys he and his wife own. And the birds – O, the birds! – the birds carrying the wind of everywhere they’ve been during their migrations stop at our bird bath, a few splashes before hopping through our yard in search of the abundant worms. The birds don’t mind us and we stand in wonder before them. The stars are each in their kingdom, hidden for now beyond the big unbroken sky. My wife on her kneeler, hunched over the garden path, pulls creeping charlie from between the pavers. There are enough fragments of creeping charlie left behind in the soil for their return in a few weeks. I’m meant to be present in the moment, the feel of the dirt on my cracked hands, the wind blowing my hair over my eyes, the dribble of the little mechanized fountain that draws the neighborhood wildlife to us. The man who molested me lives in my head, but he is not alone. This catalogue of mercies from our well-fed Earth, chives and pill bugs and lilies of the valley and robins, the neighbor boy and his dog, the dozen new perennials my wife ordered from the other end of the state – and O, what names! Penstemon and agastache and baptisia and astilbe! – and, when they arrived, secure in their cardboard boxes, she carefully dug and enriched all twelve holes and now they’re here, growing, photosynthesizing, ready soon to open their petals like a child’s eyes. All of it, here in my head, jostling for position, for attention, bouncing between corneas and optical nerves and cortex, strolling on a paved path of photoreceptors. There are honeybees and, tonight, back in their hive, they’ll hug each other as they sleep. Some may stay too long, may get too tired to journey home and decide, instead, to sleep inside our flowers. The first kohlrabi stem is plump and glossy and ready for picking. There’s an ivy cutting growing roots in a small glass of water on a window sill in my wife’s craft room. The air plant, soil-less and free, hangs as if in flight from the kitchen ceiling, ready to collect every particle of life it needs just from the house’s humid air. In the native corner of the garden, the viburnum is making plans to produce berries. Soon, so soon, it’ll only take a couple more years. I’m meant to be present in the moment, my shoes wet from the dewy grass, my knees crunching as I squat down to grab a handful of weeds, my back sore in the glorious way only a day working in the yard can bring. Someone has taught the squirrels to beg and they do it well. I’m told my shatterstar brain is actually a superpower and I’m trying to embrace the excitable distractibility that makes me unable to see the oven mitts left on the microwave and the wide open deep freeze door, its melted frost dripping along the garage floor, the way I must speak my intentions to the world as if an incantation. Yesterday, at the grocery store, a woman sneezed in the bread aisle and I had a panic attack while trying to find a decent peach. I’m meant to be present in the moment, to breathe with the maple tree in the neighbor’s yard, to catch the fragments of light filtering through the ferns, to look long enough to see the coloring of the hummingbird as it darts from the blooming sage to the feeder to the telephone wire bisecting our corner of sky. I promise the goddess in the garden that every pinch of forgiveness I’ve asked for will be paid back again and again and again. Somewhere, someone is writing a song or a novella or lifting a baby from its crib, its wrinkled little legs flapping like wrinkled little wings. I hope that baby isn’t crying. I hope that someone, halfway across the world, feeling the chill of the season opposite mine, is watching the sky, wondering about the same stars I’m desperate to see this evening. I hope that a toad or a snake moves in to our yard and startles me as it basks in morning light. I hope that those dandelion seeds I blew last month landed somewhere moist and soft. I hope the boy next door sleeps easy, his dog at the foot of his bed, the moonlight through his window casting a kaleidoscope across his eyes. I hope that whoever is reading this is calm, sitting on a couch or in a chair or flat-backed in bed while someone they love is down the hall humming a song that reminds them, both of them, of being a child and running through grass, chasing the birds just to see them fly. I hope. Again. I hope.
August 15, 2025 at 11:31 PM
anthonyframe.bsky.social
okay okay okay but are these Fantastic Four Oreoes filled with *real* Fantastic Fours?
August 10, 2025 at 8:17 PM