The greatest treasure is that I’m dying
On the inside, on the outside–what does it matter
Everyone hears me, and raises me a sum
So I call, and the phone dials death on my behalf
I am half, I am half whole and noisy and disturbed
But letters sent are wages earned, so to speak, without remorse
I can’t remember the last time the twine warped in two limousines
But forget all that
Forget the enchantment at the edge of your niche
The words are dead, like me, and I am one with them, inside, outside–what does it matter
