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.
(June 7, 2016)