Questions surface amid abstracted city
state shocked, face-sure, beyond senses,
on top of the wood, where answers
move to the east side.
Family resemblance reflects
through the trees, fits beside grace
on the shelf sliced into the beam.
Within our land, the forest
manages the acreage, the city
slides between look and image
and the windows are always open
and the screen lets in the breeze.
What is the sum of 11 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.