Every kind of season makes mirage of

distance—alters what we call perspective
enough that any impossible far becomes

obscured farther & whatever nearness
once yours disappeared by atmosphere

—nothing familiar or real, no porch-lit
welcome, no one waiting up.

In fog this town looks like any town
in fog. Which is to say you’ll easily lose

your bearings, think curb isn’t & corner
that intersection nearly blind. We could

blame air, the local forecast made local
by all our talk—our ruraled vowels pulling

down that cloud cover so low that sky
is in our mouths, weather the only word.





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