Fog

A loss. To begin with a reordering. To scrape it into some­thing else. Felt I was talking too loudly. Cornflower bloom. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. All the Gauloises in her voice. A lull. Before the wind-slept portico. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. Two egrets on a glass table. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. Now, summer. Always ever only almost sure of anything.

A loss. Cornflower bloom. Two egrets on a glass table. To scrape it into something else. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Winter, no fall that year. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. To begin with a reordering. All the Gauloises in her voice. Felt I was talking too loudly. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flow­ers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Before the wind-slept portico. Now, summer. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitch­en, drinking tea. Always ever only almost sure of anything. A lull. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters.

She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. To scrape it into something else. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. A loss. Before the wind-slept portico. Always ever only almost sure of anything. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Now, summer. To begin with a reordering. A lull. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Felt I was talking too loudly. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. All the Gauloises in her voice. Cornflower bloom. Morn­ings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Two egrets on a glass table. Talking seeming suddenly strained.

*

The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Blue and green, and red. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Still as entasis. That’s the maple. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To live there for years before painting it. Allow and remember. To wrest those sweet notes out. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising?

Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Still as entasis. Blue and green, and red. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Allow and re­member. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising? The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. That’s the maple. To live there for years before painting it. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To wrest those sweet notes out.

Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Still as the gods’ stone faces. The bend of these curtains, whim of the wind. Blue and green, and red. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. Trap snares dopplering past the window. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising? To wrest those sweet notes out. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. To live there for years before painting it. In the other room with her neoclassi­cal nonstop toccatas. Allow and remember. That’s the maple. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. Still as entasis. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night.

*

The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. Conspiracy of clods. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. In search of fresher air, have driven north. She had the most exquisite taste. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. This is nothing. Wound about her every word. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. This whinging, ailing mess. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. An exercise in disappointment, or meditation on an unknown theme. After years of waiting, nothing came.

After years of waiting, nothing came. Clouds spread out like blight. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Egyp­tian chords immanent. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. This is nothing. And he feels afraid. Conspiracy of clods. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanish­ing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. Wound about her every word. An exercise in disappointment, or medita­tion on an unknown theme. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. She had the most exquisite taste. Through the open wound of the mouth. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other.

Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. She had the most exquisite taste. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. An exercise in disappointment, or medita­tion on an unknown theme. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. After years of waiting, nothing came. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. This is noth­ing. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Conspiracy of clods. Wound about her every word. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent.

*

They fought until the birds protested. To approach the very edge of artifice. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. So that when he exhales be­neath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe. The courtyard flinched with frost. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. The closest we come to religion. At night, grinding teeth, sharpen­ing incisors. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. Fair as flight is fair. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Through the open wound of the mouth. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. The turning of a page.

On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. Through the open wound of the mouth. The courtyard flinched with frost. At night, grinding teeth, sharpening incisors. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. A palm reflecting sunlight to­ward the cheek. The closest we come to religion. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. They fought until the birds protested. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. To approach the very edge of artifice. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. So that when he exhales beneath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. The turning of a page. Fair as flight is fair. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe.

Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A palm sliding across the cheek. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The closest we come to religion. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. So that when he exhales be­neath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. At night, grinding teeth, sharpen­ing incisors. To approach the very edge of artifice. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. They fought until the birds protested. Fair as flight is fair. The courtyard flinched with frost. Through the open wound of the mouth. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The turning of a page. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell.