The Well That Thinks in Circles
The Well That Thinks in Circles
I was here before the village,
Before the church’s shadow leaned my way.
I was here before rain learned to fall,
And I have been thirsty ever since.
Do not look in.
The surface will swap your face for another.
It is polite like that.
It does not keep what it takes
— at least, not all of it.
You may see silver at the bottom.
Those are not coins.
They are moons that drowned,
Too heavy with prayers to rise again.
Sometimes the frogs speak.
Sometimes they cough.
Sometimes they remember the boots that stepped on them,
And those boots now walk without feet inside.
A child once came here with a jar.
She went away with a jar.
But the jar was not hers,
And the thing in it still knocks,
Still wants out.
At night, I count the stars in the water.
When the number is wrong,
I know a pilgrim has drunk me.
I know they will dream of teeth—
Not their own.
Come at noon. Come at midnight.
It makes no difference.
The same shadow waits here,
And it is mine,
Though I have no body.
I was here before the village.
I will be here after.
I am not a well.
I am a mouth
That does not close.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 