Was thinking last night

when sleep wasn’t in the room

the apartment

really.

Was thinking about poetry;

what it is

to me.

It is a story I think but

distilled

desiccated into a strangely

concentrated

form…a smudgy literary residue

left over from boiling out

the details;

the

nonessentials.

Like a story it has a tale

to tell

but

obviously

Without features…sometimes.

Sometimes

without rhyme, reason…and

(lots of “and” missing) bullshit.

Mostly without much

of what a story

is

but with so much more inserted

attached,

connected,

assembled…

of what the story

isn’t.