The poem I read last night left salt stains on my couch.
It kept breathing on my neck while I tried to sleep.
It's made me the object of its intentions,
following me through my day,
appearing in the swirling of the cream in my morning coffee,
visiting me in the knowing glance of my coworker across the table at the Thursday afternoon meeting,
and cutting me off on Hwy 55 heading north toward the city.
