What Does it Matter, Dying Slowly

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

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