Excreting Poem by GRANT FRASER

While holding
a basket of fruit
with the best illicit
grin one can muster,

It's maybe true,
but nothing new,
that we're all on
the brink of existence,
high up
on some dizzying bridge,

And the smell
of what we are is there,
or coming up in gusts!

Whirling wrinkles
chime,
get moistened,
forget all titles here,

Your engaged, enraged,
by your blood fire,
the fluid clean and near,

Exits....

As all thought
trickles out,
with pearly pure faces,

And time, slackens...