By | 1 February 2017

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.

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