Eye Opener

Yesterday's poem wakes
me up. It tells me that it's

not finished yet. Says
to change and to while, it

to they. Forces me to forego
my shower, postpone taking

my pills. Then it sits there
arguing with me as I

delete the words it says
it doesn't want. The ink

impresses the page
overnight, becoming part

of its identity. Replacing
those words would make it

something else, correct
by others' standards, but

stilted, incomplete within
itself. Undistinguished. It

seizes my fingers, twists
them, make-a-wish

style, renders them unable
to strike the new words

into place. We stare
at each other, mirror images.