I ask you. Is your soul still open?
Does the sound of Gabriel’s trumpet
Install in you the glory of God?

I am a weak creature: I find fault
With the universe and its creator,
Whom—or whatever—that may be—

And there are days when I’m undone
By a nameless grief, by my marrow
Singing only to itself for alms.

And there are weeks when love
Appears to me—in the form of a dog—
And I can no longer bear to call it.

So, I ask you, Where does it dwell, 
This thing called soul, this mirage
I feel pricking my nerves with gall,

This clear shadow made manifest only
By doubt and doubt’s sister, trouble,
Or by doubt’s beleaguered bride, faith?

I have waited, like a saint, alone
On the Bridge to Nowhere, and I swear
To all that is unholy and sacred:

My soul, my perplexed spirit, keeps
Its vigil all night, awaiting a sign,
Like a ship that can never dock.