I wrote something for you: a poem
or maybe it was simply words
that you might choose to call a poem,
then lodged it, folded, in a book;
but you have half-a-thousand books,
so years may pass before it drifts,
ghostly, like a pale pressed flower,
into your lap.
Then you, while seeking Larkin’s Toads
or some nostalgic Betjeman,
will find instead
my soul’s elusive fingerprint,
embodiment of love
that you might choose to call a poem.