Poetry is what looks like poetry, what sounds like poetry. It is metrical composition. - J. V. Cunningham

She said he was a man who cheated. He said she didn't play the game. She said an expletive deleted. He said the undeleted same. And so they ended their relation With meaningful communication.

Plato, despair! We prove by norms How numbers bear Empiric forms, How random wrong Will average right If time be long And error slight, But in our hearts Hyperbole Curves and departs To infinity. Error is boundless. Nor hope nor doubt, Though both be groundless, Will average out.

What demon is our god? What name subsumes That act external to our sleeping selves? Not pleasure — it is much too broad and narrow —, Not sex, not for the moment love, but pride, And not in prowess, but pride undefined, Autonomous in its unthought demands, A bit of vanity, but mostly pride.