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Critics and Me

When I think of Critics
In the myths of my mind
I see frowns, noses like fountain handles
Turned up and cold
I imagine their fast, impatient fingers
Scattering pages of my soul
Their eyes, cold blue or demon’s red, alight
At a mistake--
Or, their brows curve like broken bows
An arrow suddenly loosed, stuck inside the heart of my words.

My heart thumps, jumps, skips
Like a school girl
My forehead is like a sidewalk in the rain
My hands slippering, like skates on ice,
Awaiting the Judge’s verdict.



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