GRANT FRASER

(JUNE 7 1964 / ABERDEEN)

Murtle


The pretend bit
is not me,

and if I could
collect all the bits
that reflect,

every puncture
of thought,

all those internal
flickering's,

not even an attempt
to be some kind of poet,

but the light seized,
and authenticity
congealed,

there is nothing
but your hair,
as when I see you -

for real,

and there is a redness,
always,
with the sunlight in
your hair,
turning round,

but the road up ahead,
and trees above,
hit me first
and then twist,
into dark knots & flexed limbs,

green sex!

I can't hold you
for long,
my mind is a
frayed balloon,

and there is a disappearance
of self,
almost every
several seconds...

and that the Sun just
doesn't ever sleep,
but comes around,

the plants that I
do not know, seem
to shout out that
they know this -

'you do not know us! '

funny,

yeah but what's your
name again?

as the world around
me goes in and then
out again,

some attachment,

we take a kiss by
the fence, utter things,

we're just out for a walk,
and the light of evening
is fading,

let's go back now - she sez,

we could eat a pizza,
watch a film,

yeah! I think while taking
a picture of some mysterious old tree,

spying...

Submitted: Saturday, May 10, 2014

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