Here is what my revision looks like. Hoo-rah day 4 NaPoMo.
The poet who kills the poem
stalks it first – hunches down into the drafts
on his desk like a feral cat in grass – waits
with pen in hand to pounce on the assembly
of lines that keep failing to be what he wants.
Then all at once he assails, immerses those frightened
stanzas into the nearby sink, and before they have
the chance to fully drown, he tears them
apart line by line and releases them from his
window. They flutter slowly down the side
of his building and land among other discarded
dreams in a gutter.
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