In the city’s daytime dumpster I saw a holy fool, my father, feeling out frozen bits of potato. What is my father doing in Moscow, far from the Minnesota woods, their clean deer with kingly horns? In falling snow, two brothers with a hand-pulled cart pass, both of their noses smashed in different directions. There is too much white here, and where are your shoes? Your private faith, burning, a wooden cross on iced chains around your neck— am I to be lost for this, for seared paint blistering from a rotting plank? When at last you look my way, your shocked hair a tangled wreath: physicist, baker, wild dove.