If “the termite is a delivery vehicle
For the contents of its guts,” then I am
A delivery vehicle for the contents of my
Thoughts. My stories are alive and real,
But I’m just a shuddering husk housing them
For a while, a way to generate more text
For the Library of Babel, which was a way
Text generated itself via a husk it named
Borges. On and on. They can’t thrive without
Us and we can’t can’t thrive without them,
But I’ll bet when you saw that you weren’t
Certain whether them or us were speaking
To you, the industrious songs or the husk,
You, the industrious songs of the husk.
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