Poor Poem Isle Poem by GRANT FRASER

There it is and there it is not,

is it there, it is not there,

but it's here, somewhere...

in the prosaic of barbed
words and their wiry blue

life is a struggle one
way or the other,

words are a wound - getting

deeper, at war

- why don't you
kiss me sharply
and reap blood,

I am too poor, to be left
here on this poor vocabuleric
dumb floor,

besides I haven't arrived yet,

no, not even began,

and I am awaiting like an impatient
Sun, for you to set...