Said The Poet To The Analyst

 My business is words.
Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget who one words is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got somethhing I might have said.
but did not.
Your business is watching my words.
But I admit nothing.
I worth with my best, for instances, when I can write my praise for a nickel machine, that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen.
But if you should say this is something it is not, then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny and ridiculous and crowded with all the believing money.

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