there is as much of you in you as me
when i count it all out upon my hand.
i come at last in this moment to see
there is not much of me in you, my friend.
perhaps i should take this insight and end
my quest to be one in your circle,
and draw out my circles and lines and then
forget as much of you in me. less full,
i could go out and hunt another dull,
but life battered wit as you, and then find
in he or she or them the miracle
of balanced friendship, something more sublime,
or continue here to draw out your life--
like a mosquito fat on rhino hide.