Ripples 10.00.Am Poem by GRANT FRASER

A few circles
maybe,
then double back,
scratch jaw shadow,
listen for birds
through tinged slats,

torquise robe,
exposed thigh,
black hairs
smell the activity rise,
among this stone
ruby red hut
of symmetrics,

a worn side
of psyche enters,
fingers slatted,
awaiting, deciding,
is there a blood
word worming
to find us?

it's all smells,
and slithering shells,
that follow course,
unsweetened, dampening,
crumpling nylon
in May days fecundity,

if death hastens
each stiff aground,
creativity your orgasm,
inward gasp,
older human stalk,
unfolding each urge
as it is not written
just driven,
to climb forward,
go somewhere new...