Me or you?

When I do something wrong,

but not evil wrong – a slight

tightness of acting out of the kind of

sorts, classes and types you might

expect of me lately

(you must see what I 

mean) –

then my whole whirled collapses 

and little there is in this terrible

maelstrom of connected ideas to

avoid feeling the shit you want

me to feel; and then I wonder – I have 

to wonder you know – if the 

shit I accuse you

of dishing my way is real in any way …

… or not real at all!

Me or you?  Where exactly is

the truth?  

Where does it lie and

where does it half-fact, to be

acted upon and motioned

like meeting of historical relationship

now consigned to 

urns, and wages poorly spent,

and under the bridges of

sorry gone and

went.

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