A Late Bird... Poem by GRANT FRASER

I could be
the determined bird,
pecking through
the felled wet grass,

is the word alive?

wriggling all over
on account of what
it means?

I've got over 200 nests
already,

lots of mouths gaping
deep inside,
which never stop gnawing,

words pop up out of the
ground without a sound,

I eat them vigorously
or draw the longer ones
out by their
elementary tails,

I think it's okay to
feel confused sometimes,

as even little things need
feeding,

for they shoot out
of the ground
and cover
up all the places
where I go,

but you know
the repetition
of it all,
and the rain hits my
face along the road,
of things
I'll probably
never know,

and I must be
some early bird
or just a little too
late to make sense
of everything,

and it bothers
me to watch the whole
natural explosion,

and the knowing,
always overgrown with it...