Thoreau lamented from his ponderous pond-side

we do not fill all our pores with our blood

oh woh that the man felt half a man an arm

a leg

even if only the smallest toe

that blood left him lame.

Woh that such a man as this living

history we see in hindsight

woh that I now in the foresight of this Walden

pick up my brush

pick up my pen

pick up my arms

raise to the open sky

rain down rain down rain down fill my pores

multiplication of the fractions of

my life that is all that is needed

let history tell

of the blood spilled from my smallest toe