The Part—and the Whole of It
Stocking the globe is not
my issue, taking stock
is my issue—and deciding
what to do next. I was
only a speck until the machine
got a hold on me. I'd curl up
and read my accounts. It was
another world—built on dead trees:
On the shores of mirror and veil.
Now—men and women speaking:
Same audit, same flinch.
Same tongue—no visible shore.
Home is another story:
different specks, same machine.
Prescription or sacrifice—
it's hard to say, but always
the same relentless fever
on the tattered wing of day.
