As a rule, I don't like to write poetry.
Probably because I'm not very good at it.
Nevertheless I enjoy reading it, and my one of my latest acquisitions is Jennifer Militello's Body Thesaurus, published this year by Tupelo Press.
Maybe it's because I know Jennifer, because I know the lilt of her voice and the way she tips her head down and then forward, looking first always to her left to see who is paying attention, but I greatly enjoy reading her work. I hear it in her voice, her tones and inflections.
My favorite poem from Body Thesaurus is 'Eye,' under the section heading, 'The self is not a battery of tests.'

To offer a small taste of her wordcrafting, enjoy this pair of stanzas.

"An exotic patina, the reefs we stray onto, a deepening
of rooms. Your breathings stretch the nets of fisherman,
such groomed and tangled manes. The surface of your lake

is torn paper, the rain-soaked hides of horses.
You discover what the sea represents in dreams
and are discovered by the subtle nocturne in mourning."