It is dark
all around.
He holds a box
of kitchen matches in his hands.
He strikes one,
sees the well, close
in the light of the flame
before the match goes out.
He lights another, tosses it in,
sees the depths before it goes out.
He lights another, tosses it in,
sees the glimmer of life-sustaining water,
deep in there,
sees the glint off old coins
at the bottom, before the flame is extinguished.
This is what writing poems is like.

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