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.