Poetic prose or prose poetry?

#ShortStoriesAndPoems I don't know where one stops and the other begins. I have always waxed lyrical when writing and  produce something like

He kept his back to the area of the graveyard where Deirdre lay. When he attended other burials he left by the small gate in the wall nearest the bridge, he never visited her. Now he turned to follow his shadow, a guide thrown by the climbing sun, to her. 
 She wasn’t alone any more: her parents were buried beside her. That in itself caused a pang of sadness, a slight tightening in the chest, a queasy feeling down low in the stomach: a memory of a time when he thought that in the end, they would lie side by side. 
It wasn’t anything they talked about, or even planned, but down there in that country town spouses usually ended up that way: twin plots one headstone; beloved wife devoted husband.

I look back at it and consider editing out some of the words, but I can't, because it all seems to fit: the words, the paragraphs and the emotion. I decide to leave it, because I regard it as good poetic prose.

And then I come towards the end of the short story to what I would call the reconciliation scene and I write prose and I examine it, carefully, then decide to change the P.O.V. - to first-party narrator,  stick in a few "Returns" separate out a few paragraphs and it becomes poetry.

And then my father rang.

Deirdre’s back home - She’s dying,

some terrible wasting disease.

Are you coming down to visit her?

He went on breathless, eager to explain.

I knew he had practised this,

said it aloud to himself, listening to words

he already knew: to refine the inflection.

Her sister brings her for a drive, 
that’s where I found her
sitting in the car near the wood.
She’s going blind now too.
What kind of sickness takes your faculties like that? 
She asked for you. I think she wants to make peace:

You better come down
while there’s still time.

I stayed away, even though on still nights -
when the city traffic had dimmed 
and the windfall leaves rustled 
quietly beneath the branches,
when the scent in the air was hedgerow honeysuckle,
I heard her calling. 

Softly, so faint, away in the distance,
on the cheek brushing, wind,

Then that night -in the moonlight under the stars,
I went down into the wood: to its pine heart; 
and garnered from the forest floor
into my hamper box,
small twigs, pine and fir and larch cones,
covering them with palm. 

I  ranged outward, seeking the brown
yellow and green, turning to amber, fallen-sinner-leaves
covering them with creeping ivy.
I scooped up hawthorn haws, yew berries
and green spiky chestnuts, 
womb-open, showing their fruits inside.


So when you read this you can decide- am I writing poetic prose, or am I writing prose poetry, or  neither? Maybe it's all just a figment of my imagination.