Parachute Poem by GRANT FRASER

It's that moment you cross
into some not quite ultimate
place,

but real,

like strawberry
jam drying on the edge
of a crust,

it's the antithesis!

the bits of fluff,
and toe nails fogged
over, real,

the magic hysterical,
empirical secrets of a world

your flight from stone
to spine, ankle rock at sea,

coated by last night's
turning over on used sheets,

and words clogged with long
strands of hair,

with a desire to stare and stare,
until it petrifies,

and street sounds pour like
incessant showers within these
waking hours, as if one has to know...

or at least find out,

the score? what...

and every statistic turns over
on top of you, like a difficult
board game, until you know,

your psyche is hung drawn & quartered,

imagine that,
even should you win,

losing track of everything,
in that fleck of dust floating difficult,

symmetrical precision,

like where to land?