He sits rejecting poems,
saying too much no,
a black pen in his hand
to score their lack of lo!
but then a magic word stands up
off the page: candelaborough –
it throws him out of kilter.
I’ve been too fine a filter.
Now see: the name of my true home.
It calls me! My native rococo!
Snug in his stamped envelope,
folds grimed like those in verses,
he rejects himself, bites a wet lip
and steering with his paperclip
lifts off for their rendezvous:
You edit me! You are my due!
Above the cirrus he traverses
we hear his fading blip.