I watched a dog sweep across the land where no man stands;
So delicate in his every step—
He manoeuvred across it with a strange familiarity:
The mud to him was not a problem,
...
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Then rewrite it, hone it, refine it, in fewer words unless you have more to say on the subject, and see what happens. Some poems take days, weeks to reach final form, others a New York Minute—fast, fast.
You need reread it, and take some time for reflection as I told you before, then come back to it for a rewrite later after your unconscious mind has the time to work on it.
I have come back to help you with this poem as you requested. It is a first draft, that's the problem here, you thinking it through. Too talky.
The creation of any work of art, poetry, is a mystery, the process, the composition. You will find your way.