Not Even Remotely Truish

Sometimes, lucky reader,
You pick up a story
That goes so far around

The bend of possible,
Improbable, utter
Nonsense, it seems to shed

Reality like trees
Shed leaves in the first wind
Of the first autumn storm,

So your reading becomes
Like facing into leaves
Or shreds blown from a dress,

And you laugh, like a kid,
That barking laugh, delight,
Look at this craziness!

And you’re so glad someone
Can turn language to scraps
That dance in the lamplight.