Strike first comma. Combine lines four and eight, compress. Misspelling; should be “tintinnabulation,” which is not what a thunderstorm sounds like. Fifth stanza derails completely. “Swift” never rhymed with “grief.” Get your own style. Avoid evasions. Answer my emails. Give up on continuous selfhood—anything of the momentary us projected anywhere else in time. Come to this little bar downtown: we’ll discuss. Leg, stocking, fingers, wrist. Agreement occurs so easily when coaxed. Soon you’ll see by our mingled light. Think clearly. Worry less. Write more. Quit adding adverbs. Read other poets; don’t seek their advice. Throw out that fucking thesaurus.
Miles Klee writes for Vanity Fair, Lapham's Quarterly, BlackBook Magazine, and others. He is the author of the novel Ivyland (OR Books 2012), which The Wall Street Journal described as "J.G. Ballard zapped with a thousand volts of electricity." He lives in Manhattan with the screenwriter C.F. Lederer, his wife. You can find more of his work at http://milesklee.tumblr.com/.
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