The poem doesn’t have fingers or hands but can ask anyway. Ask you.
This information about the poem is not set against a plane of color. Say burnt ochre. Some deep dirty red. Not that. But the poem itself may be. A frame is not optional.
The poem puts me on a pedestal. Of your own making. See ME up here. But not waving now.
And, in fact, there are no winners. And you know why.