My Dream

I wrote a tiny poem.

I chiseled the delicate prepositions.

I used a razor blade to shave the adverbs. 

I took out a soft cloth

And polished the edges.

It was complete—like a nut.

Then I put the poem in its place

and it was too small!

A large gap remained.

The poem fell in a heap

to the ground

and shattered—

broken letters all over the floor.

I swept them up carefully

and placed them in the poem drawer

where all the remnants of my poems lie,

jumbled and sad.