Bruce McRae
At this late hour
I would rather find the radix for root
or cubus of x than be raging at an afterlife
or attempt a dull confession.
I would rather unnecessary risks,
unnecessary operations,
than to explain my family
to your company of one.
Listen as I cut close to the bone
while swimming round the articles
of Christmas present, Christmas past:
there’s little mystery in fleshed-out fact.
You don’t know me, if you knew me
you wouldn’t want to know.
Yes, I’d prefer to drink the piss of seven
virgins than detail my spiring youth
to an audience of none.
You shouldn’t mind. It doesn’t matter.
This is not my purpose here.
It’s not why I have come.
Page(s) 28
magazine list
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