This poem is
trying to write itself.
What do you want to say,
little friend?
We are in conversation
with everything we read.
I didn’t say that—
the poem did.
It moves my fingers
like a claw machine joystick,
slow and trembling,
reaching for something
already disappearing.
Is there anything else?
There is one more thing,
and it’s this:
You are the poem,
as much as I am.
And then it let go.