Echoes say everything
of longing for constancy,
nor in their "movement" of bitterness
nor of particularly happy milliseconds.
Pleather tresses squeal
only when rent by rough hands, wind,
an exacto's dropped glitter.
In my words, not on their own.
Be indifferent to innocent stucco.
Something is dying everywhere!
Best allocate "assets" wisely, with good sense.
Fantasies can be used for upward mobility.
Failed attempt at "greatness," though, are typical,
That I could give a one single formula:
the brain would not house poems
and bricks would stand as bricks.
What is the sum of 7 and 11:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.