Red Bath Poem by GRANT FRASER

Strange to think
that your puddle has
always been there,

filled with so many
others blood,

and some would say
you should have
been drowned at birth
by your loving mother,

or that the cast iron
shadow, could bestow
upon you, this ultimate tragedy!

mind is muddy,
not quite dignified,
yet no rod, upholds us,
even should you spit,
into the wind...

to be a slave,
or to acquire
a kind of revenue of self worth,

a word elasticating
like a length of broken spittle,
woven across sand,

an oasis of air,
fall in love -
we still care - we care,

even though living,
is a sort of hollow investigation,

and that a thought must at all costs
tunnel it's way out,

the sacred wound
that speaks from nothing...
with little time to bow,

non interference,
as if only milliseconds new-borne
out of your cool cave,

you are at one
with nothing....