Squeezed Poem by GRANT FRASER

Against cupboard
door,
neck strained,
hoisting a fat black
camera,
to catch carpet
alight,
before hope
sinks down,

and that I am
not dying,
empty of effort...

how sharp, yet fading
fast...
as I lower
want edges
to everything,
especially thinking,

speckles of dark wool,
brown standing mirror,
without the usual
apprehension,

am I too round
or square,
to divide
the momentum,

either by knife
or hook,

it's a beckoning
call, from that great
big hole in the roof,

it's going to be missed,
run for the machine,
or of how I catch, alight?

a burning wedding,
for a time...

until the fire
of moments are caught,

sealed in a vacuum!