I came upon a poem in a mall but
I did not write it. It was unwritten in the swarm and
in the stores. It was full of adjectives and enjambment.
It rhymed from time to time. It alliterated like a pretzel
bought at an island cart. It was a well-crafted sestina.
It sprung forth in iambic pentameter. Etcetera.
The specifics are unimportant. They were spoken for
in many other words. I think I last saw it in a glass case,
straddling a mannequin with nipples, where I
left it last, untouched. As if writing it would have trapped me
in the infinity of its dumb and senseless logic.