In the well I see many things
Some not so splendid

I used to think that rice paper curtains were spectacular
But then I found them wrapped around my head
And I thought differently

I kept being told it was a matter of how I looked at it
Only I don't think so

It is a still night of contusions

I don't wring my hands anymore
I don't even raise my eyebrows

She told me she was numb after many blows
I was as sad as I have ever been
Knowing in my own way the feel and texture of brick
How it's rough around the edges

He slides his words like shoe polish on a parched skin of some kind

and I listen
and she listens
and nobody does