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.