"Reality is an illusion,
albeit a very persistent one."
I flip the pieces 'round themselves
in temper-fits that last for days—
and while it's true I tell the truth,
it's only in the thoughtful ways:
the green the pastures tell the cars
as they go by in smoky fog
and revel in the passersby
in burnt out ends of salted hog
is just the sort of self-defeating
admiration of itself
that paints a blue sky out from under
silky black and endless bog!
You see? the pieces fit each other
across the bread in marmalade;
the truth is only true so often
that when it is, I am afraid.