Gutted

What if you could pretend,
Take only starts and ends,
Titles and final lines,

Gut and toss the middles,
And then rewrite your life?
Fine, just don’t rewrite. Be glad

Grace falls from elision.
Elysium’s just rot.
Shed fragments raise such wraiths,

Conjure such spooked stories,
Cadge imaginary,
Fable-filled, haunting poems

That never existed
Even when something did.