Where did I leave my bracelet? Imagine
a world without wrists, is my next thought.
Forget what I said before. This is
all I've got. There isn't anymore.
Here's the ten-second version of The French Exit:
It starts here, where you begin
remembering. (How else could it begin?)
(If he's mine,
why can't I keep him?)
I love when it forms a semi-coherent "poem," but what especially surprised me was that my first and last couplets both contains parentheses. I don't think of myself as a very parenthetical poet, though I do love a dash.