there are sentences
hunting me
unsatisfied

with their final form
saying
i quit on them

stanzas marching
around
hoping to stumble

upon meaning
glorious
meaning

unaware
of their bare cell
in a table

who imagines
me scrivening
desperately

for no one
will ever
page thru

these rows
hopeless
and knowing

sown on
imaginary
white ground

unsettled salt
embodying
being not