To Critics

Dear Critic,

I give you now my life's work.

The labors of my hands.

My magnum opus, all my hopes

Contained in one tiny, helpless poem.

For, just as Jesus, before the five thousand

Separated each loaf into hundreds

Yet they all remained whole, and fulfilling,

So too do I separate my own spark of life

And distill it equally

Into all my works.

Do with them what you will.

Tear them, crush them, eat them up.

It makes no difference, for there are always


But, just remember

That each one was still made

With wheat that first sprouted

From tiny, microscopic grains

Of me.