I suppose you could call me heartless as a dull anvil clanking in a sodden barn, the damp wood too lazy to echo your pain; and your limbs twisted like great roots, your hearts rank melons bursting with fluid, your tidal headaches, your equatorial fevers were all grist for my scientific mill, my hands cold and precise like metallic probes on your beaded foreheads.
I suppose my brief visits and cryptic prognoses do little to comfort your collapsing veins. You ask for a word, I spout statistics. Your skeletal hands pray for light-- I check your pupils. Do you understand? It is not that I care not for healing if only the power would come; but science is an impotent matchstick broken in death’s fingers.
I have never collected moths but you are pinned somehow on my mind’s wall several hallways from heart. Allow me this distance, allow me not to weep. Should those dark waves with their thousand eyes once spill over the dike, I do not know what sort of god I should become-- most likely a madman but never again your doctor.