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The Spring Cricket’s Discourse on Critics

Everybody’s got a song
they’ve gotta sing.
So they say. So they 
think. Everybody’s got
a pair of fat thighs 
they believe they can 
just crush together 
& crank out the golden
tunes, ye olde razzmatazz,
& the opposition will drop like— 


no, I’m not going there.  


I’m gonna sit here 
awhile, & watch the dew 
drop: its letting go 
so lurid a metaphor for failure, 
I can’t help but take it 
out of circulation. Everybody’s
hungry, everybody’s hunkered
in their hedges, hanging on –
in the end nothing’s left
to talk about but Style.   





This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

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