I am not yet a critic,
nor would be.
(Barely a poet) -
A critic would sit, turning the pages,
knowing a logic to his synaptic firings -
not sit in the bay window,
suffering through Curnow’s precise drudgery
thinking of the elusiveness of joy
and the slow spring’s unfurling,
mourning what’s lost in the audit.
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August 11th, 2008 at 4:53 pm
Brilliant! Ha, I misread the last line as “[morning's] what’s lost in the audit”
Ah, critics and academics. A plaque on their dry, painful essays.