He sits at the fulcrum of a critique.

He sits as an italic, an index, a concern.
There is no bone to be picked at, so

he gives it one. There is no hate to be

delivered, he attends now with a pen.
The slight weight has shifted its tolerance

sideways. Was that what you projected?

Is that the bitter cadence you have rung?
Give me an apple-skin to shine through

every vector of my home. Bring me the

cast-iron plate. Bring me combustion.
From the sedentary workroom no axis

tilts from its custom, nor its plane, for

the bench lies idle with the undecided,
the unlikely, the uncontained. Prayers

come like breathing from a chair. An

adage ripens. When dust is next un-
settled you shall hear the hum, the

ineffable note rising. The song rises to

rise again, from unrestricted evidence 
of timbre and tone. From the critical/

uncritical adage that set it going. It is

neither broken nor un—. It is reviving.