The poem on the lake.
The poem with a checkered blanket.
The poem in which a great painting
is described and then sold at auction
leaving the poem empty, unreadable.
The poem in which the moon compares
itself to people and their things.
The poem about a cow named Alan.
The poem shaped like a field.
The poem in which Christ pockets
all the money donated in his name
and walks off, muttering to himself.
The poem with room for milk and sugar.
The poem in its mid-fifties.
The poem written in a strict form based
on the stages of grief, emphasizing meter
and denial.
The poem in which a dog returns
to say love is a kind of tennis ball
thrown into the night, a thing
glowing in grass just enough
to find it, but still faint enough
to be lost with no blame. There is
no blame, the dog says, you were
busy and I didn’t live long.
Be happy we met at all.
The poem made of red cups.
The poem written on a hat.
The poem prescribed by a doctor
who makes a second appointment
to read it to you under supervision.
The poem tied up in traffic.
The poem in which the word Skull
is capitalized.
The poem punishable by song.
The poem in which Hyperbole is
pronounced so incorrectly
people actually die.
The poem that doesn’t end with
the ghost of a dog.
The poem of exquisite regret.
The poem that delivers itself
on the way to the hospital.
The poem of swift justice.
The poem of just swiftness.
The poem lovely as the letter R.