In someone else’s poem
I am that fat red drop
running down the bottle, and
they too sun-struck to lift
a finger. In someone else’s
poem I am words with a line
through; a lost adjective,
missed caesura, line unbroken;
a dog at someone’s feet; an
eddy behind a just closed
door, a hat left carelessly
on a table.
Whereas in my poem –
things are very different.