There is no such thing as a secret
in a world so tiny as this one is,
we all rub elbows constantly
and something spills out
when we least expect,
what I suspect is general knowledge,
with me the one out of touch
because I spend so little time in this world,
when I live in another, somewhat remote
which is why when E says
she knows all about the owner and the poet,
I’m the one that’s shocked
and I shouldn’t be,
since I believe it was going on early on
and tried not to let on, not even to myself
(painting myself green with envy over it,
thinking maybe it really isn’t going on,
hoping it is my vivid imagination,
hating E for seeming to confirm
something I want to deny,
this apple pie vision of a world
that otherwise is rotten to the core,
with me green
when the apple isn’t.
I am the worm that crawls out of it,
and I hate myself for thinking
what I am thinking,
if it is really true.
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