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.