Take the last line of a poem and make it the first line in a new poem.
Your move, writer.
Steal the ending and see what it grows into. Borrow the last line of something aching — "and still, the porch light stayed on" — and use it to open a poem about waiting, but this time let it curdle into something funnier, a comic monologue about a suitor who never shows and the dog who eats the flowers meant for him. Or take the closing line of a nature poem, something quiet about frost or rivers, and let it become the first crack of an apocalyptic piece, the same image now menacing instead of peaceful. Or go tender: lift the last line of a poem about grief and let it become the opening of one about joy, proving the same words can hold two different weathers depending on what you ask them to carry next.
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