Fever dreams

From the beginning, the art was tied to labor
and labor to its art. The chisel, the hammer,
the pen; the odd job, the scraping, the barely-
getting-by: it’s romantic, they say, in a spare,
borrowed-room way, if you think starvation
is romantic, which you don’t. You’ve watched the sun
in its wide arc across they sky too long
to find too much romantic, any more. You’ve run
your heart down to its very core, whatever
that means. Claptrap, you want to say. Fever
dreams born from delirium — no, not even that,
but something far more boring. Life, a raft
between two shores that stretch beyond your ken.
The sun beats down. And art is your own sin.