In a poem I wrote, I reworded the clichés about promises in a promising way.
In a poem I wrote, I was just as forgettable as the next forgettable face.
I wrote a poem with an encyclopedia of tenderness trailing from its lines. Then I wrote six more.
In one of my poems, two people bicker inside a Taco Bell. I know the people, though I’ve never been.
In a poem I wrote, I use a metaphor too aptly. I should have just said: I’m angry.
Poems of mine include birdlife, recently.
One of my poems is about knobby, unique noses, and the boy who loves them. Actually it’s about this one boy’s love of noses, and my less unique love of ankles.
All of my poems are true, whether or not what’s in them “actually happened.”
I wrote a dozen poems on a single topic and now my topic has returned to flesh.
Once, in a poem, I said, Fuck you, Caligula.
Poems don’t get written; they are wrought. Or fought against. Or they are simply made of rhymes.
In a poem I wrote, I asked you to leave your coins at the door.
In a poem I wrote, I asked, May I please be excused? and politely.
In a poem of today, my size was defended by someone else besides myself.
Poems don’t often find themselves among company that isn’t poems.
While I write a poem there is no thirst.
While I write a poem I have no hands.
While I write a poem…I quit. There is not always a poem.
Perhaps a poem could don a wedding gown.
Perhaps a poem, perhaps a no-em, if it’s not any good.
This poem is rated PG. Pretty Good.
If I didn’t write poems, I’d just call them something else.
In all of my poems, I never say “firmament.”
I sent you that poem I wrote for you, with your name in the very first line. Didn’t you love it? Why didn’t you love it?
If poems aren’t people, please explain to me how it is that I love them like this.
You can judge a person by their poems, even if they’ve never written.
A poem of mine was taught to a classroom of eighth graders, and I believe they survived.
A poem of mine was slipped under a doorway as proof of: You wronged her.
All the poems I’ve written are forms of proof.
The proof resides just outside the poem. The poem, poof.