a porous well
leaks to the roots of an
unsatisfied man, who has
only his own blood to carpet his
body, who has only his own blood
and his own blood may as well be
a winter's powdery exhalation.
red fingertips don't do the right job
because they're his own, and everything
he wants isn't an option.
to we who were driving to goodbyes
and to he who announced a happiness
left previously undeclared:
i'm not happy right now.
