Poems April 2004
Thieves
There are thieves
in the mind, their
dens in places
wed prefer
not to know.
When a word
is lifted from
its spot, we show
no surprise,
replacing supplies
with provender.
Out here, its
the tiniest stutter,
the subtlest patch
an affordable loss
of no significance
whatever to the
plastic surface of
social commerce.
Should a bit vanish
from an event, we
likewise manage.
But back at the ranch,
a hoard is building.
The thieves are
hatching some
fantastic plot
made out of parts
wed laugh to think
that they thought
matched.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 8, on page 51
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