Self Accusation

A22. Concentric circles cut
Into broken rings by the grey carpet,
Someone's shoelaces coming to strings
Above hiking boots in swirls on the floor.
Under my scalp the slight din
Of ineffective pills,
Behind my eyes a boiling.

Is it that perceptions stir me like a pot?
Do I boil over with blame?
When you strike, do the stricken strike in turn?

Why strike?

Because certain combinations of words
Are unpleasant. Avert your eyes?
Turn the other cheek?

There is shame in that. To see something rotten
And let it go to waste. Better to thrust,
To cut, to break through the blotches
On the fruit and carve out
Whatever a man can save.

You self-appointed surgeon of the soul!
You Socrates!