you are what you see in what you search
An anchorite stops walking
In the middle of the lake,
Turns and looks at his
Until their ripples disappear.
Invisible to boatmen,
He then wears his sandals,
Inverts his body,
Testing the upper dactyls of faith.
He sees an unrecognizable face,
And resting on his hands notices that
Phalanges have left muddy handprints
In reflections of clouds,
Looking like bloated, pale worms.