as he proceeds he begins to doubt his way
there are no features by which to mark his progress
at last he stops and turns to see his track
fill in and he has lost all sure direction
but one he gains apprehending certain knowledge
and bending over he begins to dig
shoveling snow aside with his cupped hands
he delves in the unresisting element
till he has hollowed the depth of his own height

and then the snow fills in surrounding him
and he rests suspended in its ambiance
he no longer knows if he is up or down
and his vision is resolved in perfect darkness

he opens his eyes and the I seems to stare back
an entity having somehow gathered substance
he puts quotation marks around the I
and beside it writes a poet in a room

Lance Le Grys lives in New York state.