subtext

The you, like most pronouns, is me,

of course, except when it’s not.

Although my voice, self-reflective,

embedded in parentheticals, laughs

at you, meaning me, or perhaps you

depending upon the misdirection

intended, or stumbled across like

a rock on a random trail traveled

once in dark humidity, then again in

my head, as darkly before, metaphorically.

Who’s to know? not you – – certainly

not me: which is the true vision,

and which what we see? I am, like

you, shattered light within a prism.

At once fragments scattered, and

a mosaic pieced together as well

as can be, considering the difficulty

any of us have maintaining a strict

point of view, when we cannot even fix

on what antecedent takes precedence.