the dry as dust bookkeeper
adjusts the round spectacles
on his angular nose
and says, without emotion:
\"nine hundred sixty five days
eleven hours
twenty three minutes
and fifteen seconds
that\'s all you have left\"
but will she send letters to me
to my dark and sealed office?
how--without a keyboard
and me--brain desiccated
bones tangled in a heap
fingers here and there
how will I reply?
and narrate to her
my painful loneliness
my wasted regrets
and shards of love.