I want to think of poems as if made in a shot tower,
a tall building where molten lead poured through a sieve
drops a long way, with surface tension forming
perfect spheres, annealed by the plunge
into the cold water tank of reality at the bottom.
Instead I confront a bored detective
digging a misshapen bullet out of a wall
after it missed the target. A leaden clot
dropped into a plastic bag but marked
by human choice. Pure gravity writes no poetry.