What, if anything, do you find frustrating or unappealing about this poem?

What three words you would use to describe this poem? Please make sure one of them is “incarnadine.”

How satisfied are you with the poem, on a scale of one to the unquantifiable spaces between numbers?

What are your overall impressions of the poet’s shuddering sexual puissance?

How likely are you to recommend this poem to a friend or family member, who also lacks the emotional capability with which to endure its terrifying ambiguity?

Suppose you had five minutes to talk to the poet about her work. What questions would you ask? Why would you ask questions rather than simply listen to the ambient sighs?

What type of storm system would you most like to see as a metaphor for the poet’s relationship to the maternal aunt she once saw changing into a tankini?

If you were responsible for selling 1,000 copies of this poem, would you still cry out to the family you left behind, grandfather? Would you walk past Peter in a frock coat and say death to the commodities that rust the tractors away, in these fields of barley daughters.

If you could change one thing about this poem, it’s probably because you don’t understand the deep Keatsian tradition it’s following. It’s probably because you’re expecting this poem to offer you comfort or answers, and this poem isn’t going to do that, because it’s about the uncertainty. It’s every question you’ve ever asked yourself at dawn’s gaping maw. It’s identical triplets who each think she’s the real one. It’s a brunch buffet from the strip club near the airport where all the chafing dishes are made of knives and filled with the scrambled eggs of the eagle who ate Prometheus’ liver. From strongly agree to strongly disagree, when will you awake and wash your face with the bone broth of sainted cityscapes…