He sends me poetry, asks what magic I have to give in return. My skin is nothing but mosquito bites, my mind is nothing but billables, what could I possibly have to answer. The remaining days in the desert tumble from my open hands, I always squander infinity when I have it, tell me, doctor, what do you have to prescribe me for my sins.
The hamster wheel spins and spins, rolling around you in shrinking circles. The crick in your neck is back, the violent winds after sunset.
Who did I come to the desert to be? Who did I become?
The Fates laugh in my face and move
on.
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