THE CRITIC
THE CRITIC
As I
type, a fly lands
On
the writing pad placed beside me.
It
does not move, holds position
Even
as my hand threatens close.
I
watch this intricate, patterned beast,
Held
by both fascination and detail.
It
leaves a tiny brown blot on white paper;
A
full stop for my poem, or perhaps
A
critic demeaning the purpose
And
pose I prize most. Unlike a bird's
There's
no stain but in wiping it away,
It
leaves imprint: a form of the letter 's'
Which
names silence, or, possibly
Just
this fresh form of shit. But clearly,
A
collaboration has come
From
the unbidden air, onto paper,
The
start one hopes for a language
In
which partners in thought see truth hit.
And
thus, in something truly mundane
We
glimpse the miracle within nature;
As
what we prize passes through us
Two
worlds combine. Spectrums shift.
David Erdos August 26th 2020
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David Erdos |
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