when one born in a well
has no desire to get out
in falls a sunbeam
shard of moon
bead of rain
feather of snow
echo and shadow
depth reaches the bottom
water of life cools the forehead
burns the stomach
drowns the sorrow
muddies the thought
one born in a well makes amphibian eyes
not long ago still had gills
on the procrustean bed
spanned between
a stimulant and a relaxant
in a place where everybody
wants to have everything for nothing
