masked by the shadow of things, and wrapped
in a casual robe of suns and of stars,
could you point me to my God? with your feet propped
up on earth’s steel invisible pole (heel dug cool in the hard snow)
would seem to know. He left me
ointments and clean clothes in a cold cave,
a ghost cooking breakfast on the shore.
I just don’t know anymore—You there, could you
tell me, hard-starved, where to go?