Do I want seconds
I want to write a great poem
Here just falling asleep
Thinking of animal names inventing
A new way to do adjectives
Sustain the regard, all corrupted parts
Of the diction
Can I enlist you?
What's true for the snail
Is splendor
Bananas crescent moons
there is rain and a virus outside they are falling
in a strange occasion the morning will be
"all mine"
Golden hills against the greyish truth cemetery appearing in
the old romances proximal, notational sketchy
A teenager on main street, it can't be
simply impressions yet impressive how the stars
arranged
Turmoils the turgid passages
Luscious rash
I have learned to say
from a long list of murders such ecstatic personal austerities
this great ensample
presumption and arrogant visions
make up Art's heart
If you think words are made of poems
I mean poems are made of words
As we're taught
I know plenty of words
Though I come from the provinces
Where the earth is filled with violence
Agentic, essential
To what a human calls the world
In high sun
A dark corner
Odd fog
In vital personality
Standing at the fair
I know dismay has some relation to lyric
Through repetition
And measure
Is a breathing castle
Stacking lines together
Science won't destroy our enigma
But does something to the glare
The peaks of these
Nodding grasses
Remind me of paradise
Where sentiment is hard and clear
- Hannah Brooks-Motl
