Among fictional live bodies lies a fictionally dead one, <br />made so not by itself but by one or more bodies who <br />had a mind or minds, means, and opportunity <br />to kill. Identification ensues. Who is dead, who <br />killed, who will mislead, confess, and reveal? Enter <br /> <br />empiricism, wearing a thick coat and looking <br />around with those unmistakable Aristotelian <br />eyes. The empiricist is a foe of secrecy, a friend <br />of plodders who trod paths of data, and an assistant <br />to the plot. In death, on ice, a body in this fiction <br />is information incarnate. It is cause <br /> <br />for apprehensiveness and apprehension, <br />justice and correction. Ah, there in a meadow <br />of likelihood stands a murderer, defined <br />by spores of imperfection and pride, caught <br />by humble fact, the residue of act. Under <br /> <br />arrest, a fictional transgressor is held, as I, <br />satisfied, hold the soft paperback book in my hands.<br /><br />Hans Ostrom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/murder-mystery-poem/
