A poem should be wider than it is tall, to evoke a photograph
or a landscape. It should look like prose, like a paragraph, should
evoke argument or narrative, but should be disjunctive, to prove that
it has no plot. It is really just a bundle of fragments to be burned.

If a poem puts forth an argument, then it is like a child
who attempts to converse with adults about their research.
Many false gestures of understanding are to be exchanged.

To write a sentence that can stand alone is like standing
after sitting down. It is not unusual, but some perform it
like a child who has fallen to the floor for the first time.

The programmatic subject of poetry is love, which some insist
on drawing in the form of the face, but I am sure that a supine
block could work just as well to convey the expansive feeling of
fear and faith that accompany the most star-struck individuals.

A poem should be wider than it is tall, to evoke a picture.
It should look like prose, because a horizontal but wooded
box recalls a bed. The thing is built for a person who has
no anxiety about the past. We build the future in dreams.

A child that stands is as impressive as a tree, so it demands an O.
O child who stands, lend me the power of your first innocence,
Such that this line can maintain its floor until the force of you
has it all rotate until the roots stand high in the air, impeding
crossings, each life standing on its own, happily separated.

Promise that you will never grow up. Sicken yourself with wonder.
I will refuse to answer any questions about the origins of the stars.

The programmatic subject rears its head again, crying out:
You’re very boring. I’ll tire of you soon. Your shoulders are tense.
My pussy is wet. Hurtful words are meant to elicit a response.
We like speech acts, however violent. We like formal restrictions, too.

Love took my hand and wrote for me: “I am going to be
the most domestic email-writer who ever lived. I will sublimate
into a paper bloom. My career will be built on this empire of text.”
Love let go of my hand and I obeyed. Nobody remembered that
I had been possessed. My boyfriend believed I was simply serious.