You see it. Misery lurking. It cannot hide behind the smiles. It cannot hide behind the words. It hides behind the busyness. It hides behind the swiftness. With which it cannot feel nor witness, its own hand, nor sipped nectar, from the fruit of its own work, or the wheel of its own labor. In which it Is locked out, of its own love. In its own home. In its own presence. In its own grace. And told to go find it. Out there. In a cloned neighbor. In a false friendly. In an exotic thing