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Where should it begin?

Out at sea over obsidian

blue and then crawling

toward new topography, on the horizon,

it is night time.

 

I woke up, in the

morning, to fog murmuring

in the canyons of my

neighborhood, grazing the bay

windows on my block before

looping and rising, a tawny unbound

collection of shared sighs

                                          and imperfect

reflections, over the orangey

fluorescence of street light and through

the slow dance of San Francisco houses.

 

It is limitless and then

It is gone.

It strums languid sun

beams as it hums

melodies from an old,

forgotten song. Then 

it lifts up

              up

                    up

and I watch it until it

isn’t. There is a point 

at which there is

no more.

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One thought on “Complete Fogs

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