Ode to a Deconstructionist My letters as they leave the pen accuse Me of not meaning what they say, instead They wander in a way I cannot choose And suit themselves inside the reader's head. But I defy them truly to refute That I am their creator, whose right hand Arranged them with a kind of senseless wit That needs no zen master to understand. And you critical thinkers who insist That meaning is not measured by intent Should read my words again as love letters And cry to think that they're no longer meant. all the best, Mattis