Down the well I threw a stone. No splash returned.
Just the right slice of night was served up instead.

Twice now the moon’s beckoned through the fog.
I’m no fool: moons can’t be harnassed up to woe.

Riders end up ridden, haulers hauled, just like
the bars we put up to keep out thieves, not

ourselves in. I married someone. I made her
unhappy. She learned to make me unhappy.

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