All stories of deception are empty.
—Alice Notley
I am speaking to the poem.
There is no meaning.
Therefore...
I have tried different things
like putting together sentences
with and without punctuation
and the last couple of days
scrambling the lines
after throwing them together quickly
(some clumped
from 2 or more portions of the ledger).
My sense are diminish.
The steam off roofs come.
Cloud the days like this one.
My soul real narrative
arguing around a table of grapes.
An apparition. An apparition
are great.
