Quarrel

 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?

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