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No.17

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This swaggering nebbish, occulted by reticence,

Ambivalent to all save the rare, volant sentence,

Shies from public performance (that feckless adventure),

Declines documentation, yet craves constructive censure.

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A reclusive archer, a’quiver his arrow;

The scope of his genius irreducibly narrow.

Standing self-conscious at crossroads of Solitude, Loneliness,

Shrugs off discomfort, fits shaft, sets about business.

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Slips after his quarry among shadows city-cut

Obsessed singular vision, a vanquishing insight:

To be ineluctably occupying your memory

To achieve it with words honed away ’til there aren’t too many;

Just enough to lodge splinter-like, begin subtle burrowing.

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So he shoot, waits breathless, his own heart hammering.

Will his words be dislodged, though barbed with raw sentiment?

Too dull to pierce through, too few to whisper what he meant?

Archer unnoticed; how can arrows find their mark;

Would you notice, even, if one found your heart?

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I’ll stand nearby, and maybe smile to hear you hum

The words of my poem to the beat of another’s drum.

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No.17

Erik Kaisson, 2017

… and my 200th post.