That end too soon.

Sometimes a poem, like a love affair
(God I hate that term, so seventies,
so knowingly faux-louche) ends
before it makes the point
it was made to make.

The point you made it to make,
so you thought. The point you began it
to make, but you'd barely begun to lay
your well-prepared plan, when right
or wrong in the middle of things,
or so you thought, it
suddenly twists, and has

stung the hand
that cried and swore it had held
all the strings.

Its own perfect point
brought home in your skin, and stuck

with no way to pull out
or go on, or again begin.