Nothing new. Grackles
rooting ragweed, goldenrod,
the lion's teeth of sunflower.Maybe each of us envies
the chorus of birds,the deep creek's rub
with infinity. The cast-offfield. The neighbor's lawn.
The curse of feeling drums in the way back, pools into poison.
A promise built by oiled palms. Keep cover. The laws
of one replaced by another. Your wants fenced once more.
What is the sum of 11 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.