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.