My poems telling me it doesn’t want to be too long.
It’s too tired for that.
Says it doesn’t want to be burdened with the weight of the world.
Says today is not the day for death.
I offer it love and it shrugs.
Yawns.
Says it guesses but thought we had
more originality than that.

I ask my poem what it wants,
it asks me to step aside
and writes itself.