A pale anchorite halts
In the middle of a lake,
Turns and looks at his
Poised footsteps.
Invisible to boatmen,
He wears his sandals.
Inverts his body
Testing the upper
Dactyls of faith.
Sees his unfamiliar face,
And resting on his hands,
Notices that phalanges
Left muddy hand prints
In reflections of clouds,
Just like bloated worms.
(Jan 2008 - May 2009)
