Shot Tower

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.