Because I feel like I should post something that doesn’t involve Twitter, here’s the only poem I’ve ever written (I’ve written four, all told) that I feel even slightly OK about sharing. It is a Spencerian stanza.

As I lay, curled into a tiny ball
My head upon your chest, I close my eyes.
I wander calmly through a marble hall
The Rembrants blink – so slow – depressed but wise.
I step into a garden and hear cries.
An oil-paint girl upon an iron swing
At every peak the paint grows cracked and dries
I cry for her – my tears become a spring
She falls. I wake, alive with warmness your arms bring.

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