It's that moment you cross <br />into some not quite ultimate <br />place, <br /> <br />but real, <br /> <br />like strawberry <br />jam drying on the edge <br />of a crust, <br /> <br />it's the antithesis! <br /> <br />the bits of fluff, <br />and toe nails fogged <br />over, real, <br /> <br />the magic hysterical, <br />empirical secrets of a world <br /> <br />your flight from stone <br />to spine, ankle rock at sea, <br /> <br />coated by last night's <br />turning over on used sheets, <br /> <br />and words clogged with long <br />strands of hair, <br /> <br />with a desire to stare and stare, <br />until it petrifies, <br /> <br />and street sounds pour like <br />incessant showers within these <br />waking hours, as if one has to know... <br /> <br />or at least find out, <br /> <br />the score? what... <br /> <br />and every statistic turns over <br />on top of you, like a difficult <br />board game, until you know, <br /> <br />your psyche is hung drawn & quartered, <br /> <br />imagine that, <br />even should you win, <br /> <br />losing track of everything, <br />in that fleck of dust floating difficult, <br /> <br />symmetrical precision, <br /> <br />like where to land?<br /><br />GRANT FRASER<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/parachute-5/
