***
And now, looking at my hands
like white ants, like crabs cast upon the shore,
like dead spiders, I think: I have done everything.
I have worked with blasphemous certainty.
Perhaps sincere blasphemy is a prayer of sorts.
And even now, as I see them at rest
your hands folded on the dusky hills
I don't know how to be good and wise.
Lord, does art only make us realize our cravings?