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.