I took my new poem to her,
A good poem it was.
She read it
And we discussed how
It falls in place with the new cryptic genre:
We saw that the images held together well.
One of us, must be me, even gave count of the syllables
To see how much of a haiku the poem was.
Later I remembered that she never asked who the poet was:Something within me burst like a soap-bubble in sun.