Standing at the edge of the cañon,
I urged my poems to Be Vivid! Jump off the edge!
One poem looked over her shoulder With knowing eyes,
Ground out her cigarette, Turned to- ward the edge, and Met the air head- on.
I never saw her again.
Meanwhile another one screamed No! Fell to the ground,
Clasped me around the ankles, and begged. When she finally stopped crying
(I petted her hair),
She crushed wadded-up tissues into her pocket. Embarrassed, she tucked her head down
And mumbled that she would wait in the car
(I put her words in a clause to be true to her abnegation).
Just above and behind me hovered (And just barely drawn in outline) Was the poem I did not see.