Corrective

The book was heavy in the box

among the dust and winter socks.

I found a clover, flat and dry,

a green that's had the time to die.

You said my letters leaned too far,

like pickets on a broken car—

no, a fence that's fallen down.

The rain was gray across the town.

I'm thirty-four. I'm where you stood.

I think I finally understood

that red ink bleeding on the line.

The mark you made is mostly mine.