The envelope on which I wrote a poem... it raises itself as a question.
The poem was not a poem but an aphorism.
Potency is the regard of the dreamer, it said.
I left the envelope in a friend's room. It was nothing to do with him, save his presence. He read it and felt ashamed.
I have been a bad friend, he said.
I denied his statement.
That wasn't about you, I said. That was about someone else.
But it could have been about me, he said. It could have been about me.
It wasn't, I insisted.
It may as well have been, he said. It may as well have been.