---

∴

the well is sand and echo.

i pull and heave on these chains
that were said to be endless quenching;

but only the creek
of pulleys
and the strain of wood
that holds them,

comes up

and up

and up.

 

i beat on the chest of stone statues
to get water from that rock;

but they are dry

dry

dry.

 

i stare at brown leaves
that i picked up
when falling in love.

and i pinned them to my wall
like fallen monarchs,

migrating home
and lost along the way.

 

give me a smile,
give me a saint,
give me a laugh
i can’t keep in constraints.

 

give me a deluge,
give me a drop,
give me a sign
that this drought will stop.

 

but nothing is promised, really.

and nothing is ever deserved.

 

i know this now.

 

it’s time i cut my own divining rod,
and build a sturdier bucket.

∴

 

 

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