Fog

Old doors rarely open right, but
I thought I’d try the kitchen one this morning, but of course
it won’t take one step in. Fog’s tentative as a deer.
If it were alive, I’d call it patient,
eager to show secrets, miracles,
inviting me to walk on water. But, of course, it’s not,
so I’d like to imagine it waits for me to give it my body
because this is what touch is meant to do, right?
She said this morning, it scared her,
as if something were about to happen.
I think I understand that. Look at it as it leans
against the window mimicking my stillness
when really all I’m doing is trying to breathe in its last abstract
knock on the glass, before vanishing. But, funny how
I misunderstand vanishing as stillness, even as the fog moves away
and disappears, until this is all that remains here,
a body.

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