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“I am less mortal
than my flesh would have it”
—I said,

“because we want
until it no longer means
to have.”

And even then.

“My heart feels no pain”
—I said,
“It is the most machinelike organ,
after all.”

what may still the heart?
for it rests when we rest
and before that, clenches.

But—
“my mind is sore;
it aches beyond its means."

“And words,”
—I said,
“Are brittle as bone
bare as a skeleton, and
dust will inherit it.

Or else fester like cavities,
Drilling, into you, until you,
With a mouthful of regrets
choke on an unfinished senten—