Andrew Hamlin's poem is only a few words long, yet it freezes a tiny moment and makes you look hard at it. A drop of blood is falling, but the poem catches it before it lands. The word "stretched" is the surprising choice. A falling drop does stretch into a teardrop shape as it drops, so the word is accurate, but it also makes the fall feel slow, as if time itself is being pulled thin.
The speaker never says what they feel, and that restraint is part of the effect. We don't know whose blood it is or how it got there. The poem simply watches, and the calm, detached tone makes the image feel more unsettling. The mood is tense and suspended, like holding your breath before something small but unavoidable happens. The short lines, with the drop hanging at the end of the second one, mimic the fall: we are left waiting for the ground, and for the poem to finish.