No, please don't tell me you're even
going to attempt it. You're leaning
out of a balcony and reaching for death.
There are some things that can't be
hammered into poems, some colors
that don't even exist to your eye,
the ultras and infras. You can't even
nail your truck in a villanelle. A sonnet
has never gotten you kissed. Your haiku
is banned in China. But there it is,
the clouds so ripe that you figure
you might as well interrupt the moment
for words, hack out an attempt at God,
the theologian ripping up pages, angry
that he can't capture unicorns in her sleep.

-- Ron Riekki