A book-length poem; no asterisks.
A single, tremendous haiku.
A Petrarchan sonnet that does not read like an exercise.
A poem in which animals are gods.
A poem in which I am god.
A narrative poem.
A poem of incomplete sentences that cannot be described as “fragments.”
Many, many translations, with Lucifer as my muse (see Waldrop).
A poem composed of a thesis, antithesis, and synthesis.
Haibun based on a real journey up a mountain.
Haibun based on an imagined journey into the depths of the earth.
A poem about my hair, preferably an ode.
A work of poetic dialog, perhaps a drama.
A single line worth tattooing on my body.
A poem about meat.
A travelogue in which I go nowhere.
An apostrophe to seasons that changes your mind about seasons.
A poem that leads to instant memorization.
A work someone could find in a desert and turn into a religion.
A poem that invents a new landscape (not a metaphor).
A poem devoid of metaphors and similes, though not necessarily of metonymy.
A poem in which I utterly escape my Catholic past.
A poem that is a novel and not vice versa.
A poem in which I am either the head or the legs of the figure in the following painting:
Maybe I am the house.