"Baitfish" is my term for a snippet of poetry that doesn't feel completed. It could grow into more or could be made into something with the judicious use of an editing knife. Here is one:
smoke drifts across the valley
over vineyards & fields
burned blond. Where ponds used
to live, dark patches like bruises.
Autumn hangs of the shoulder
of those who sweated the summer,
worried about rain. Now rocks
too hot to touch, even restless
twitchy lizards seek shadow.
I encourage anyone to borrow a line or image. Make something better. Make something new. Or just make fun of this poet for a clumsy grasp of a lost day.