A self-critical mind.

As strange as taking

Scissors to

Cut the sun from its sky

But I often go here anyway

Holding a scope to my eye

I try to extract a blot, a fly

Only to find that the object of my

irritation,

That

Dark

Spot.

At the center

Of

My

Perfect

Globe

Is

The pupil.

And

I find

That if I let the emptiness

Be inside

Without poking it

And let the void open wide,

I see.

Where as

Before

Was

Blind

By

Self-critical mind