poetry critical

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coffee still flows from cold to hot

nature is restless
from soul to soul.
its noon;
flurries surge
onto the game
gloves of each streetkid.
a whistling man
with an unclean mug
threw something
that missed the garbage can.
he stops, kneels down
and returns it properly;
care is still common.
a mix disk buried
in slush blankets
without a scratch
by snow's fastidious craft.
a bird descends wires
through plastic
and filters to find something
that's hers.

18 Jan 07

Rated 7.5 (7.5) by 2 users.
Active (2): 7, 8
Inactive (0):

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Great opening. Drew me in immediately.

I feel like there should be a semicolon and not a comma at the end of line 12.

The transistion from lines 3 to 4 feels kind of choppy.

Did you mean "factitious" on line 17?

Sorry to be so negative. I did enjoy this.
 — the_recluse

 — listen

What in the name of Harold Ramis were you mowing when you wrote this piece? 7/10
 — Henry

^ ans.- Moe Green.
 — unknown