Let us quarrel for these reasons: You detest the salt which seasons My speech ... and all my lights go out In the cold poison of your doubt. I love Shelley ... you love Keats; Something parts and something meets. I love salads ... you love chops; Something goes and something stops. Something hides its face and cries; Something shivers; something dies. I love blue ribbons brought from fairs; You love sitting splitting hairs. I love truth, and so do you ... Tell me, is it truly true?