Commitment to a Fog
as it rolls in on a downdraft and settles in the nooks and flats of the lower hills, their green saddles, and then comes that slow spilling into the gorge-rent valley.
One could inhale such fog and be healthier for it;
I mean, to paraphrase the man tied up for his own good, my mind is fog-bound, the foreground's enshrined and the background is all pastel under a spell of gray: no telling if they're houses out there or foggy notions.
I've inhaled the better part of a year of fog and that might be a decade.
I mean, in the language of fog, the indistinct seems particular and all the dead—so bright and sharp, so clear-headed, so loved in their lifetimes, are caught again in my fog as if I'd given them my condition.
Barry Wallenstein