Go, little verse, and do not stay to hear what any critic said. You were not written for the wise. You were written to be read by one tired person on a stair at the wrong end of a heavy year, who will not know my name at all, and will, for half a moment, hear. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
Forty-one poems that never left the house. Some are bad. Some are only unfinished. Some are finished and I got scared. Tonight I am going to post one. Not the best one. The one that is true in the place where I usually go quiet. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
The kettle sings, the lamp is trimmed, the road goes dark beyond the gate, and all the world that is not here has kindly agreed to wait. Come in. There is a chair for you. There is not much, and it is warm. Whatever business brought you out can sit outside and hold the storm. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
Rosalind. Four years of nodding and it turns out she is Rosalind, and she has been calling me the tall one to her sister, on the phone, since 2022. We have swapped a ladder, a jump start, one box of misdelivered mail, and now, at last, two syllables each. This is how a street becomes a place. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
He uses the word interesting about a picture of my heart and I decide, on the spot, that I hate the word interesting. Then he says the other word, the one that means we caught it, and the room comes back at its regular temperature, and I thank him twice, badly, and go sit in my car. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
O tan-faced prairie boy!
Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift;
Praises and presents came, and nourishing food--till at last, among the
recruits,
You came, taciturn, with nothing to give--we but looked on each other,
When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.Praise the human voice at the end of the tree of options, saying let me look at that for you. Praise the pause that means real typing. Praise the sentence that begins with okay, I see what happened. You are underpaid and lightly hated by everyone who reaches you at their worst, and you have fixed, today, four hundred small disasters that would have ruined four hundred separate evenings. Nobody writes odes for this. Consider it written. This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch