We all hidebehind closed doors,old pine, dusty streetlamps,aimless poetics with a need for order,failed mimicry we call progress.
A single boundary might suffice---one unencumbered signal.A crow wheeling overhead.Rain to cleanse our mind's eye.
I am not your Rolodex.Dear God, please don't enter my kingdom.
What is the sum of 7 and 9:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.