"That panting on the wall"
really was the most interesting line
in the whole magazine.
But my pleasure in it was diminished
by the abject apology in the next issue:
Apparently the poet is still lying down
due to the typo that turned painting
into panting.
My disappointment was offset though
by a new poet who went on and on
about the waning light across harrowed
fields and the long shadows of cedar
and pine until finally everything
was "covered by dorkness."