Notes From a Poetry Workshop

I.
If you get close enough,
really bury your stethoscope
between stanzas,
you should hear a heartbeat -
and from a distance
you should hear a scream.

II.
A tornado should tear
through your lines,
breaking them in two,
swiping the shoes off
each metric foot.

III.
You should begin
by pricking your fingers.
Then type furiously.
Each word
should be as sharp
as a sewing needle -
each letter, a thumbtack
poised to pierce one's toes.

IV.
The end should
always surprise us,
leap out of the closet
or from behind a couch,
and strike us with
the claw end of a hammer
or ease us gently to rest
on a bed of nails.