Fog


A vagueness comes over everything,
As though proving color and contour
Alike dispensable: the lighthouse
Extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips
Drunk up like milk in the
Universal emulsion; houses
Reverting into the lost
And forgotten; granite
Subsumed, a rumor
In a mumble of ocean.
Tactile
Definition, however, has not been
Totally banished: hanging
Tassel by tassel, panicled
Foxtail and needlegrass,
Dropseed, furred hawkweed,
And last season’s rose-hips
Are vested in silenced
Chimes of the finest,
Clearest sea-crystal.
Opacity
Opens up rooms, a showcase
For the hueless moonflower
Corolla, as Georgia
O’Keefe might have seen it,
Of foghorns; the nodding
Campanula of bell buoys;
The ticking, linear
Filigree of bird voices.


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Fog