Here are my current favorites from the Academy of American Poets.

The Primer
by Christina Davis

She said, I love you.
 
He said, Nothing.

(As if there were just one
of each word and the one
who used it, used it up).

In the history of language
the first obscenity was silence.

*****

Hazard Response
by Tom Clark

As in that grey exurban wasteland in Gatsby
When the white sky darkens over the city
Of ashes, far from the once happy valley,
This daze spreads across the blank faces
Of the inhabitants, suddenly deprived
Of the kingdom’s original promised gift.
Did I say kingdom when I meant place
Of worship? Original when I meant
Damaged in handling? Promised when
I meant stolen? Gift when I meant
Trick? Inhabitants when I meant slaves?
Slaves when I meant clowns
Who have wandered into test sites? Test
Sites when I meant contagious hospitals?
Contagious hospitals when I meant clouds
Of laughing gas? Laughing gas
When I meant tears? No, it’s true,
No one should be writing poetry
In times like these, Dear Reader,
I don’t have to tell you of all people why.
It’s as apparent as an attempted
Punch in the eye that actually
Catches only empty air—which is
The inside of your head, where
The green ritual sanction
Of the poem has been cancelled.

****

Concordance
by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge

Working backward in sleep, the
  last thing you numbed to is what
  wakes you.

What if that image were Eros as
words?

What would it be like if you
  contemplated my words and I felt
you?

Animals, an owl, frog, open their
  eyes, and a mirror forms on the
  ground.

When insight comes in a dream,
  and events the next day
  illuminate it, this gens your
  streaming consciousness,
  synchronicity, asymptotic lines
of the flights of concordances.

An owl opens its eyes in deep
woods.

For the first time, I write and you
don’t know me.

Milweed I touch floats.

****

The Blue Terrance
by Terrance Hayes

If you subtract the minor losses,
  you can return to your childhood too:
the blackboard chalked with crosses,

the math teacher’s toe ring. You
  can be the black boy not even the buck-
toothed girls took a liking to:

the match box, these bones in their funk
  machine, this thumb worn smooth
  as the belly of a shovel. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Everything I hold takes root.
  I remember what the world was like before
I heard the tide humping the shore smooth,

and the lyrics asking: How long has your door
  been closed? I remember a garter belt wrung
like a snake around a thigh in the shadows

of a wedding gown before it was flung
  out into the bluest part of the night.
Suppose you were nothing but a song

in a busted speaker? Suppose you had to wipe
  sweat from the brow of a righteous woman,
  but all you owned was a dirty rag? That’s why

the blues will never go out of fashion:
  their half rotten aroma, their bloodshot octaves of
  consequence; that’s why when they call, Boy, you’re in

trouble. Especially if you love as I love
  falling to the earth. Especially if you’re a little bit
high strung and a little bit gutted balloon. I love

watching the sky regret nothing but its
  self, though only my lover knows it to be so,
and only after watching me sit

and stare off past Heaven. I love the word No
  for its prudence, but I love the romantic
who submits finally to sex in a burning row-

house more. That’s why nothing’s more romantic
  than working your teeth through
  the muscle. Nothing’s more romantic

than the way good love can take leave of you.
  That’s why I’m so doggone lonesome, Baby,
  yes, I’m lonesome and I’m blue.

****

I May After Leaving You Walk Quickly or Even Run
by Matthea Harvey

Rain fell in a post-romantic way.
  Heads in the planets, toes tucked

under carpets, that’s how we got our bodies
  through. The translator made the sign

for twenty horses backing away from
  a lump of sugar. Yes, you.

When I said did you want me
  I meant me in the general sense.

The drink we drank was cordial.
  In a spoon, the ceiling fan whirled.

The Old World smoked in the fireplace.
Glum was the woman in the ostrich feather hat.