stating your opening plainly:
present no imagery vainly
complicated for your reader.

Be clear. Dont be a misleader.
Don’t write some stunningly brave
quirky and cryptic thing that they’ve

been bored by many times before.
Try to make your poem a door
to transcendental reflection.

Critique, mock, offer connection—
And please, please do not mention pies
Or eating them naked. (Not wise . . .)

PROMPT 27: Start by reading Robert Fillman’s poem, There should always be two:

There should always be two

ripe grapefruits in a glass
bowl in the fridge beside

a small note: Darling, you
can always count on me.

Scribble that to yourself
if you have to. Then spend

the morning in the tub
holding yourself beneath

the water. Listen for
the cello’s womb bleeding

into your wrinkled skin.
Eyes half-opened, like rough

moss lining a clay pot.
Don’t get up to answer

any calls. When you fly
downstairs, there will be bags

of groceries already
unpacked, a bright kitchen

that you won’t remember
tidying and a fresh

pie warm on the counter.
Eat it naked and wet.

Then write a poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines
and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind.