The Well
To be alone like this,
A Crusoe finding only his own footprints
and following them.

A man stalking his shadow’s fresh track
as it circles, returning to his doorway,
the night a weight at his back.

Alone like this you become
what you lack. A man living off his life
the way starving men survive
for a time, or the thirsting
strain with the rope — the well’s depth
suddenly enormous.

That water bears the seal of your face.
The ladle’s a locket you must press your lips to.