I think of the fog in the lowlands this morning.
How something that can’t be perfectly seen

is the thing you want to reach for,
you say is beautiful –

becomes the very thing
you constantly lose, never quite having.

It’s strange thinking you forget.
But, I can’t grasp you, either,

you, pretending to be blinded by your hair
before I sweep it from your eyes

seeing, then,
the yellow cornfields left trembling.