And if the critic is right
and those poems of no more worth
than a broken bottle scattered against the curb
or a dead bird in September's early bite
or the curse of a fetish priest in the modern world . . .
then there's nothing to do but hope
that the glass be sealed in cement in some way useful
that flowers spring from those weightless hollow bones
that the curse turn into a song to make children smile . . .
but if the critic is wrong
may he shred his fingers clambering over a wall
may he eat crow feet beak and feather
may his belly swell and his genitals wither . . .