Wait, there's more . . . it'll come to me . . .
that elusive construct that opens a dialogue
and you're off and running
with depositions about the hazards of following suit . . .
I know you know what I mean
having been interrogated again and again
about the meaning of meaning . . .
You said as much in discovery
and now you're living in a yurt
with midnight puppets
editing autofictions with invisible ink . . .
mirror images reflecting after-hour hookups . . .
It's not so much the tabbing . . . but flipping out
over the admittedly loose adaptation
of a fragmented backstory . . .
And this was elsewhere, yes? . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |