Time to slough another day away

in my cold desert of parched poetry:

All terse verse, vapid vows, tired topos,

base imitations, stolid invocations.

Then, a murder of linocuts, crows—

black towels wrung out, life's twisted

tongue heaping impasto, resisting

me to be lapped up by lesser prose.

Their secretions, Earth's mossy maw consumes.

Bloody and sebaceous libations

for the god who, from these febrile phrases,

will bring forth next season's creations.

I thought: if I could drink water from sorrow,

this vessel for a vibrant flame,

from creatures' flailing, plodding tomorrows,

I'd finally burn this grief to name. 

Forrest first began experimenting with poetry comparatively late during his second year at Dickinson College, where he found something singular and enduring in the form. His work has appeared in The Dickinson Review, and his poem “Saline Song,” received the Morehead-Timberlake award. He is also the founder and editor of The Common Standard, a Substack and semesterly magazine featuring poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.