But Cut the Line

You’re well up in the mountains,
Doing what you do, counting
Flakes on the windshield, trees down

In the gorge from last night’s storm,
Reading other people’s poems.
You find one that feels anguished,

Not about being done to
But about doing or not
What should or shouldn’t be done.

You like that. That’s rare. You count
That one, jot it down, fishhooks
And lures tangled in its lines.

You want to assuage the guilt
That isn’t yours, start to write—