O twice cooked pastry (pale brown), how camest thou,
by ochre dunes and gravel plains, hurried o’er roads
(some sealed, some not) while camels slept this early morn,
with Apollo’s fiery orb still low on yonder ridge,
laid fresh before me on this bright table cloth?

Do I see in your crunchy geography
Mirror’d there my own uncertainty?
What doth thy shape portend, circling that dark vacancy?
Pray my way be round like thee, and end where I begin
And might I learn to watch the donut and not the hole within.