Nearly finished now, the building becomes

all final touches, all last minute & this
or that, trucks pulling in every hour, & now

landscapers arriving to consider something
that might green. These months an echo,

every day thinking how that building took up
the yard, but it didn’t. There wasn’t a yard, only

empty lot, wind tunnel, tumbleweeds of whatever
blew in, lousy with vacancy—the way any thing

constructed & then left wide-open without us
will turn. Which is to say, this building has taken

nothing, taken up nothing, except that view
I claimed my own when I’d given up all

other rights to the possessive. So, I’ll give
it up again, say instead yours.

 

 

 

 

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