Although I don't employ it nearly as often as I do ballad stanza or trimeter, I've written tons of dimeter. This is probably my most successful attempt. Carolina Quarterly characterized it as Murphy's epigrammatic Paradise Lost, and it is identical in stanza with Frost's The Dust of Snow and with Hardy's The Wound, with which I began the loose iambics thread.
The Expulsion
Six weeks of drought,
the corn undone
and wheat burned out
by the brazen sun:
over that land
an angel stands
with an iron brand
singeing his hands.
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