When You Come to the Bottom of the Well

If you are the sort of creature
Who, in the absence of a pond
Or a river, needed a well,

You might hang on a little while,
Hoping fresh water emerges,
But when it doesn’t, and you dig

Another well that comes up dry,
Possibly even another,
You cry. Then you die or move on,

Since the postponing of dying
Is what living bodies do best,
Indeed, not dying is living,

Once you’ve found you’re at the bottom
Of that well that you dug so well.