I make do with just the fragments.
Especially I fall to pieces of sleep
From wholes of daily wakefulness .
I handle them all , as apparitions
Not as wholes but pieces of them
In a daily sleep, going after truth.
Poetry goes at truth in piecemeal
As our attention spans are small
For the wholes of truth, in prose.
I deal with my fragments of truth.
Apparitions are sleep’s fragments.
Lucky they never come in wholes.