Some are inevitable from the start,
as you admire them in vertical distance
come at you like a great tree
falling, or a line drive looming back
to your hypnotized eyes on the mound,
in the deliberate slowness of the moment of eternity
or love; and others warn you only
by their impact, like a good uppercut
or the jerk that sets the barb
hid in the heart-colored egg.
But do you think you can always tell
when a poem's ending is flat?